Of White Trees and Blue Roses
by angel eyes1 uk
Summary: Prequel to A Game of Thrones - Harrenhal, Stark children, Knight of the Laughing Tree, the Mad King, Lyanna's abduction, Catelyn Tully, and Ashara Dayne. Intended ending is the end of Robert's Rebellion if I'm patient enough.
1. Chapter 1

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I really don't know what George RR Martin has in mind with this back story, but I really couldn't get this out of my mind. I may be proven wrong, but this is my homage to the awesomeness that is Lyanna Stark in A Song of Ice and Fire. ****I'll stick to canon so far as I know it, forgive me if I stray. Prequel begins before Robert's Rebellion and slightly prior to the tourney at Harrenhal.**

**I'm in love with the series and no copyright infringement intended. **

~X~

Chapter One – The Wolf Pack and the Stag

Smiling, young Eddard Stark—Ned to those who knew him well—reached the gnarled old tree first. Patting his horse's neck, slick with beads of exertion after being pushed to its limits, he whispered, "Good boy."

Seconds later, with a loud roar, his friend joined him. Robert Baratheon's face was red with both exertion and frustration. "Not a fair race. This is your country. You know this road too well."

With a mild grin, Ned disagreed. "And I haven't ridden on it in years. There are new pot holes, lower branches..."

"Your horse is faster than mine," Robb argued, but Ned shook his head.

"No, the reason why I won is because you're hung over." He gave his friend a mildly scolding look. "Your first visit to Winterfell and you drink like a pig the night before. You reek like a brewery."

Laughing hard, Robb had to nod his agreement, the truth apparent in the unusually sickly tinge on his face. "Aye. Coming here to the wild north I dropped my courage in the bottom of my cup and I had to sup it back into me."

"Your courage?" Ned looked puzzled. "I thought Robert of House Baratheon feared nothing." Robert never needed the excuse of looking for courage to pick up a cup of wine or ale—something that their guardian, Jon Arryn, constantly scolded him about. On the road, he'd had no voice in his ear to curb his appetite for it, and last night he'd been the drunkest Ned had ever seen him.

"Oh, I fear no man, but I hear she-wolves roam these parts." Robb looked ahead, his eyes focused on some distant object. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of...and that's your sister."

"My sister? Last time I saw her she was skinny as a weasel and acted more of a boy than a lady. How can you be so scared of her?" Ned looked at his friend. The only thing that Robert Baratheon enjoyed more than a cup of wine was the company of young women. In the taverns they'd stopped at along the way, Robb had talked himself into many a bed—not that he needed to woo much with his square jaw, broad shoulders, and thick arms. The more he matured the more success he seemed to have.

Being the less attractive option, Ned had still found himself left to fend off Robb's castoffs after he'd retired for the night—or afternoon. Despite the strong bond of friendship, the two boys could not be more different. Determined to stay pure for his wedding night, Ned had always sent them away disappointed. Though he often found a girl appealing and his baser side tried to sway him, his honour and the honour of his future wife, whoever she may be, was more important.

"There's nothing so fearsome as the woman you've been told you'll wed." Robb ducked as his horse passed under a low branch. "One day, you'll understand. Who do you think you'll marry in the end? Has Lord Stark suggested anyone?"

Shaking his head, Ned replied, "No. I'm the second brother. Until Brandon's wed I doubt Father will find a bride for me. Being heir he's worth the better match."

"The trials of having a better looking, more famous, and much more talkative brother." Robert guffawed. "Do you ever wonder how she'll be? What she looks like? What she's like in bed?" His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"She'll be some daughter of some lord, I imagine. Someone Father wants to strengthen relations with. The rest...what does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" Robb's voice grew loud. "Me, I want to marry someone I can grow to love. Someone who I'll gladly fill with sons rather than some sour-faced, bitter shrew who I'll have to fuck out of duty once a year."

"Good luck with my sister. If she hasn't changed, she has a certain...disposition. She may have three brothers and the Warden of the North as her father, but Lyanna has a strong will and rules the roost." Pausing as he realised he wasn't allaying his friend's fears or giving his sister a glowing recommendation, Ned changed his tone. "But it's been a while. My little sister will no longer be a wilful child but a woman grown." Ned nodded his head to the horizon "Winterfell is just over that hill. Do you want to ride along talking about love like a pair of maidens, or do you want to race me?"

Robb groaned. "I don't think my stomach could manage it."

~X~

Lyanna and Benjen were taking turns riding around the ring. Wearing her plainest, most soiled blue dress, Lyanna beamed widely as she ignored Hullen. It was about time the Master of Horse's young son, accepted that she didn't want to learn to ride ladylike, and instead she remembered what he had instructed Ben to do instead.

Hullen finally realized that his words were falling on deaf ears, saving his voice and letting Lyanna do as she pleased. Many a stronger willed person had tried to change her ways. Her septa despaired and she now spent more time at archery than needlework, though so far she had not been allowed to practice jousting at rings. Her father had forbidden it. She went too far, he told her. She must remember that when she married and left for Storm's End, the liberties she took here at Winterfell would not be accepted.

Instead, when she told him she was going "hawking" or for a "pleasant ride through the snow" with her youngest brother, they would head to the same clearing where they'd made a makeshift tourney field, complete with rings and lances. Benjen would pass on what he'd been taught, and they would try to outdo each other. If any of her father's men had stumbled upon it, they'd said nothing.

Despite being of the fairer sex, Lyanna was naturally talented—more so than her youngest brother.

When she was smaller, she'd been able to pass for a boy, but now she grew closer to womanhood, Lyanna found herself cursing the fact that she'd been born a girl. Ben would grow up to be a knight, and she would be left with the task of making babies and the other unappealing things that ladies were expected to do. Often, she considered cutting off her hair and living the life of a hedge knight, but she wasn't so stupid that she didn't know how that would end the moment some thug found out that it wasn't a cock she had between her legs.

It wasn't fair, she often declared to herself, and aloud to others.

Hearing the sounds of hooves and shouting, Lyanna pulled up her horse. She galloped towards the edge of the circle, clearing the wooden fence easily, and rode towards the sound.

Two boys on horseback trotted across the drawbridge ahead of their guards. She recognized her brother instantly—his features so northern now he'd grown into them that he might as well have had "Stark" written on his forehead in ink.

"Ned!" Her horse cantered over. "You're late. We expected you two days ago. Why didn't you send a raven to let us know you'd arrive today?" She smiled at her brother's companion. "Lord Baratheon."

Robert had been staring since his eyes had found her, his mouth held open in an expression of abject horror. "I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered, jumped off his horse, and headed for the nearest building, which happened to be a stable. It wasn't long before the sound of retching could be heard.

Sister and brother mirrored one another with puzzled look, before Ned dismounted. Lyanna did likewise, and almost knocked him off his feet as she ran to him for an enthusiastic hug. "Are you well? How was the road? You've grown...how tall you are now!"

Ned gave the same silent grin she remembered from when they were both children, tearing around Winterfell. Everyone always said that Lyanna and Brandon had made more than enough noise for the four of them. Ben had some of Ned's quietness about him, though maybe not to the same extent.

"I'm well. Look at you..." Ned broke the embrace and held his arm up to allow his sister to do a twirl, and laughing, she obliged. "What happened to the weasel I left behind? You've grown beautiful."

Lyanna rolled her eyes. She had heard that often of late, and did not value such silly flattery. "I didn't seem to impress my betrothed. A few moments in my presence and he runs off to be sick. It doesn't bode well for the wedding night."

Ned gave a small chuckle, as he wondered whether he had underestimated the extent of his friend's self-inflicted ailment.

"Next time, give me a warning, and I'll make sure I don't wear a dress with a hem full of mud that stinks of horse." Lyanna took Ned by the hand and began to lead him, eager to make everyone aware that the missing Stark brother had returned.

Benjen, a good half foot shorter than Ned, had since joined them, and now his sister had finished monopolising the attention he allowed his absentee brother to muss his hair in greeting. The horses were taken away as the three young wolves made their way to greet the rest of their pack. Lyanna paused briefly to look back through the commotion to see if Robert Baratheon was likely to join them.

He stood in the entrance of the stables, but as soon as their eyes met, he turned back into the shadows and the sound of him emptying his stomach was heard once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Two – The Welcome at Winterfell

Embarrassed, Robb finally made his way to the Great Hall, but instead of his friend and his younger siblings he came across Lord Rickard Stark, and Brandon Stark, Lord Stark's oldest son and heir, amongst other strangers.

It seemed that the Lord of Winterfell already knew of the reasons for his Robert's delay as he sat cold and sombre on his high seat. Starks were the descendants of the frozen kings of the north, Robb thought. Aye, and he could see where Ned got his long, stone face from, too.

Robb worried about the impression his future in-laws now had of him, and rued the fact that he had drank so heartily the night before. Lord Stark, however, gave little away as he formally received and greeted the young Lord Baratheon of Storm's End.

Brandon Stark, standing by his father, was a different man altogether, and a very different breed of wolf to the one Robb was more familiar with. His smirk was barely concealed, and more than once or twice, he was sure he heard a hint of mockery in his tone.

Robert had no doubt that he would find this brother-in-law to be more like himself than Ned in terms of personality. Yet another brother that he would prefer over his own blood. He could swear that Stannis had been born with a poker up his arse, and Renly was more of a sister than a brother at times.

Finally, the introductions were over, and Brandon led Robb from the hall with the promise of showing him around the castle. As soon as they were out of earshot, however, he turned and said, "I'll show you your chambers, and you can try to sleep it off. We're feasting you tonight. You don't want my fellow Northmen to think we're wedding Lyanna off to someone who can't stomach their ale, do you?"

Brandon slapped him on the back and Robb felt himself go pale.

"It's good for you, a little hair of the dog. Or should it be hair of the wolf?" The Stark's loud laugh echoed, just as Robert's did when he was feeling more himself.

Not wanting to seem like a weak southerner, Robb did as he was told, taking off a few layers of clothing and climbing underneath the furs on the bed. He'd expected Winterfell to have the same chill that could be found outside but he was surprised to find it strangely warm.

Sleep claimed him quickly, and he dreamed of sitting on Jon Arryn's chair back in the Eeyrie, something that he often did when his guardian was out of sight, just for the thrill of it, though this time he had female company. A beautiful maid dressed simply in a blue dress sat on his lap, her face flushed with exertion, her long dark hair dropping over her shoulder. Her large brown eyes were smiling as her lips parted and said his name in a way that made his entire body tighten.

~X~

Benjen looked up at his father, his two elder brothers, and his sister at the table with their guest, Robert Baratheon—Ned's friend and Lyanna's betrothed. For a moment he wondered if he was jealous; he wanted to sit and talk to Ned about what he'd learned in the Eeyrie and find out what the knights there were like there. He also wanted talk to his brother's friend and find out whether he was the fearsomely strong warrior he was made out to be, he was certainly built that way, and whether Ben would get the chance to try lifting the huge war hammer he'd already heard tales of.

Then Ben looked around at the men he was sat with and didn't rue a place at the table at the head of the room at all.

"Greatjon?" He turned to the large man sat diagonally opposite him. "How many men have you killed?"

Taking a large gulp of ale, Greatjon Umber, a young man but already towering over most in the room, slammed his cup down hard, and then the tale began. Once Greatjon was finished the story which enraptured Ben but earned groans from others around them, another man started boasting of his deeds, and then another. Sipping carefully on the ale his father had allowed him, knowing fine well that Lord Rickard would be counting how many he drank, ready to send him to bed once he considered he'd had enough, Ben sat and listened intently.

He loved occasions such as this. Never bothered by his position as third son, Benjen had always dreamed of being a _Ser_ rather than Lord Stark of Winterfell—fighting evildoers and protecting the innocent, known throughout the realm. Even now as he grew to be a man he still ate up Old Nan's tales of heroic deeds and brave knights slaying fantastic beasts.

In Ben's opinion, Lords and direct heirs seemed to have very little fun. His own father had to sit aloof in his chair rather than in amongst his men and hearing their stories—Brandon suffered a similar fate and Ned too, when he was home. Robert Baratheon glanced his way once or twice, and he also looked like he would have preferred to be on the benches rather than seated in the place of honoured guest.

Earlier, Robert had looked almost green, but his face was looking healthier by the minute, though he drank carefully, Ben noticed. He also looked across at Lyanna a lot, when he thought she wasn't looking.

Poor Robert. It seemed that he was as sour on the idea of getting married as much as Lyanna was. He'd emptied his guts as soon as he'd been introduced.

His sister had told Ben that marriage was a curse that male gods inflicted on women, who hadn't even asked to be born girls. Once she got married, she'd have to leave Winterfell to live elsewhere, and do needlework instead of secretly practising jousting in the woods with him.

She wasn't the only one of his siblings already betrothed. Brandon was promised to Catelyn Tully, the eldest daughter of Lord Hoster of Riverrun. It didn't seem like a fair swap to Ben, as he doubted that any new tales from the Riverlands Catelyn Tully might bring would be half as fun as jousting with his sister.

Besides, Ben had heard men on the benches and in the yard say that when a man and woman were first wed, you hardly saw either of them for a while. He didn't want Brandon taken away, too. What with Ned being Jon Arryn's ward in the Vale, Ben would be on his own.

Truth be told, Lyanna was Ben's favourite sibling, and he would miss her when it was time for her to go, no matter who else remained to keep him company. But Robert didn't seem so bad—if she was lucky, maybe her husband might teach her how to use his war hammer? After a few moments of pondering Ben decided that he hoped not. It was embarrassing having to admit that you were less skilled than your sister; if Lyanna couldn't practise, then eventually he'd be the better fighter of the two.

Catching each other's eyes, Lyanna winked down at Ben, and they shared a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Three – The Way to Harrenhal

Sweaty but laughing, Robb gave Ned a playful pat on the back with a heavy hand, a final blow to make up for Robb losing their exchange only moments earlier.

"You might best me with a sword—"

"And with a spear," Ned added with a smile.

Leaning against a wooden fence not far away with Benjen, Brandon gave the loud laugh that Ned should have given, while Ben sat watching with more than a hint of hero worship. Robert Baratheon hadn't even had the excuse of distraction—Lyanna was out of the castle riding. Some said the sight of a beautiful woman inspired a man to fight harder; with his future brother-in-law, it seemed to do the opposite.

"Aye, but I'm built to use a hammer." Robb retorted, pointing out the thickness of his own arms.

Brandon gave Benjen an encouraging wink, and it only took a second for his youngest brother to realize that this was his last opportunity to ask before Jon Arryn's two wards returned to the Eeyrie. Jumping down, he ran over to Robb.

"Can I lift it? _Please_!"

Robb looked at his hammer, to Ned, and then back to the smallest Stark. "I don't know. _Can_ you?"

"Don't drop it on your toes," Brandon said as he walked over to enjoy the spectacle. "Being a cripple won't help your chances of being a great knight."

Dusting his hands on his breeches, Benjen disagreed. "Ser Humfrey Hardyng broke his foot jousting at the Tourney of Ashford, and he still took part in the Trial of Seven."

"And if remember correctly, he died soon after. Listen to your older brother," Ned added, still in good humour, though his face expressed it less than his companions.

The head of the hammer weighed itself down in the mud and straw of the yard, and the ornate shaft lay against the fence only a short distance from where Ben had been sat admiring the weapon. Wrapping his hands around it with an expression of awe, Ben bent his knees and used all the power his not yet fully grown body could muster. The head of the hammer wobbled a few inches above the ground.

"I can lift it!" he cried, as Brandon applauded. Then Ben began to waddle in the hammer's owner's direction.

"Whoa." Robert rushed over and took it out of Benjen's hands, picking it up and resting it on his shoulder as if its weight was nothing. "It wouldn't take much for this to knock out an ankle or two."

After a brief sullen moment, Benjen's face then brightened as he turned to his oldest brother. "Do you think father will let me have one?"

"A hammer's all well and good, and I dare say that it breaks bones easily enough," Brandon said with a smirk, picking up his own sword rather than one of the blunt edged practice swords that Ned and Robb had been using. "But it's slow. A wolf attacks better with a sword, going for a quick, clean kill. It requires more skill, of course..." He gave Lord Baratheon a challenging smirk.

"Not many men can lift a weapon this heavy. It only takes one blow—a broken leg, arm, or head, and then your swordsman won't be so bloody quick."

Brandon began to circle Robb. "Let's see if you can back up your words. Don't think you've seen all a wolf can do because you've fought with my brother so many times. He's spent too much long breathing the thin air at the Eeyrie and lost his teeth."

Ned's expression didn't change, but Benjen looked up at him, nervous about the thought of Brandon fighting Robert Baratheon with his war hammer for real.

"I know how to make a man lose a few teeth." Robert held his weapon ready. "This'd do the job."

And then Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, clashed with Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End's. Benjen's face was a picture of horrified concern, but Ned, however, had seen the wink Brandon had given and how the two men made exaggerated noise rather than potentially killing blows. Benjen watched the epic battle unfold, his heart in his mouth.

Finally bending double with laughter, Robb and Brandon put an end to their act, but as Robb turned to congratulate his opponent, he paused, finding Brandon's sword at his throat.

"Never take your eye off a wolf for a second." The Stark heir's expression had changed, and though his grin remained, it now seemed sinister rather than jovial. "Remember that once you marry one, too, if you know what's good for you. Stick your sword in the wrong sheath, and you might find that the she-wolf goes for your neck...just like I did."

For a second, silence fell in the yard, but Ned stepped forward. "You've had your fun now, Brandon. Let him be."

Older and younger brother's eyes met. "Ned, you never did know how to have fun." Brandon slowly lowered his sword. "If you weren't so like Father, I might think that you didn't have a drop of direwolf blood in you."

With a meaningful stare at Robert, Brandon marched away.

As he touched his fingers to his throat and brought them away red, Robb exclaimed, "He cut me."

Straight-faced, Ned turned to his friend. "Aye, a sword will do that."

For a moment, Robb glared but then roared with laughter. Confused as to what had just happened, Benjen nervously joined in.

~X~

The further they got from Winterfell, Ned noticed that Robert Baratheon became his usual self rather than the love sick creature he transformed into the second he laid eyes on his sister.

On one hand it was reassuring, but on the other it reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Lyanna back in Winterfell. Robert's reputation went before him—particularly his love of female company. Lyanna had thought him handsome. Robb was certainly strong and easy to like, and if he ever regained his senses around his sister, Ned thought he had as much chance as any of taming Lyanna's wildness, though slight that chance may be. Yet he knew that Lyanna would never stand for the indiscretions that would inevitably follow their marriage.

As infatuated with his betrothed as his friend might be, Ned was not so trusting in the concept of true love that he believed Robert would change his ways. They said that in the beginning, love consumed, but in the end it grew cold. That would be when Robb would go in search of a warmer bed, and that would be when either Lyanna or Brandon would express their disapproval.

Thinking back to Brandon's reaction, Ned thought about his brother's own behaviour—how despite being promised to Catelyn of House Tully he had already slighted his honour by taking the maidenhead of Lord Ryswell's daughter. It was common enough knowledge.

Though his brother might tease him about the fact he was still a maid, Eddard Stark was determined to do the honourable thing. He would never sleep with a woman outside of his marriage, to whomever or whenever that might be, and no matter what his brothers or his friends thought. It was something that felt morally right to him

Both surprised and pleased, Ned noted that Robert did not bed a single girl during the whole journey back to the Vale, despite the fact Robert had now regained all of his boldness. A number of times, a wench managed to find herself sat on Robb's lap, but all it took was a passing comment about or caress along the straight, red line on Robert's throat, and that was enough for him to cast the whore aside.

Ned almost dared to dream that this might be a permanent change, and also wished that Robb might be able to keep his wits about him the next time they would see Lyanna—at Harrenhal.

~X~

Lord Rickard Stark thought of his children as they travelled down the Kings Road, and as he rode he wondered whether it was best to foster out Benjen, his youngest, or whether he should continue his education on his own.

Both Ned and Brandon had returned very different persons after being wards of two different lords. Where Brandon was quick to temper and even quicker to humour, Ned reminded him more of himself. How much of this was nurture and how much due to their own individual natures? Sighing quietly, Lord Stark wished he could combine his two eldest sons, for then he surely would have fathered the greatest Warden of the North that ever lived. Still, Brandon would do well, he hoped. He certainly had the makings of a memorable Lord Stark, if not the wisest.

If only he had some of Ned's measured steadiness—his second son had definitely flourished under Lord Arryn's guardianship, though he had always been his quietest child, even as a babe.

To temper Brandon, Lord Rickard had taken Maester Walys's advice and betrothed his heir to the daughter of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Hopefully, making such a good match for his heir, Brandon might settle and become tamer. The girl was said to be very comely, pleasant, and all a lady should be, plus her father and uncle had reputations for being strong, dutiful men—ones who would not take a slight well. This thought might dissuade Brandon's wilder habits. Ned might be given lands near Winterfell, and remain on hand to be the voice of reason for his older brother.

When making a match for Lyanna, things had been much more difficult. It was his own fault, Lord Rickard admitted. He had been too lenient with his daughter, allowing her free rein to do as she pleased. The result had been a girl trying to emulate her brothers, and that was going to be difficult when she moved away to a place where she would be expected to behave like the highborn lady she was.

That she had turned out to be beautiful had helped a little. Lord Robert Baratheon, though barely more than a child himself, had a reputation for being as wilful as Lyanna, or so he'd been told by Jon Arryn. There had certainly been very little evidence of that during his stay at Winterfell. Instead the boy had stared at his future wife like a besotted fool. It was pleasing to see his regard for her but also exasperating—yet another male who his daughter would ride roughshod over.

Soon he would have to find a wife for Ned. Being second in succession for the title of Lord Stark and more inclined to stand back and let others take the glory, he would struggle to find another Catelyn Tully for him. But no doubt the relationship with one of his bannermen could be strengthened.

Or maybe, as a kindness in return for Ned's good behaviour, he might allow his middle son to marry for love...


	4. Chapter 4

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Four – Dragons, Fish, and Other Creatures

Walking silently behind his father as they imposed themselves upon another Lord's castle, the servants scurried here and there, panicking as their master was away. But who could deny the king? Who, indeed?

If anyone tried, Rhaegar worried about how his father would respond. Of late, the Targaryen tendancy toward an unstable mind was already beginning to manifest, and he'd seen his father's increasing obsession with fire. Rhaegar was not so blind that he'd not noticed King Aerys' growing fascination and regard for pyromancers.

If he fancied himself a dragon like Aerion, then let him drink himself into oblivion and be done with it, he thought, but instantly Rhaegar regretted it. Whatever he was becoming, the king was his father, and as a son, Rhaegar must show him some affection.

Besides, if his father died, Rhaegar would have to ascend the throne, and he had bigger things on his mind.

_The army of ice and the burning sword. The prince that was promised. The dragons will soon return to this earth. The dragon has three heads. A song of ice and fire._

Though they were on their way to Harrenhal to compete in a tourney as excessive as the castle itself, Rhaegar was reminded that he was not a warrior by nature. As a child Rhaegar had been bookish, and preferred to read or practice his harp rather than pick up a training sword. It was the books that had changed that.

Reading prophecy after prophecy in the Great Library, Rhaegar had come to realize the truth. Both across the sea and in Westeros, whether from a believer of the seven, the old gods, the god of light, or another deity, each had a theory of what was to come.

_The long night, the Others, and the battle for balance between dark and light._

When he had pieced together what he had read, the boy Rhaegar had despaired, but then he'd convinced himself that he must be the hope of man, of survival. He'd put down his harp and picked up a sword, not through choice but out of duty.

Now, with a reputation as a fearsome warrior, he could lead his armies against foe that was coming, though he now knew that it wasn't he that was the prince that was promised.

_I have a son, Aegon—the prince that was promised as the comet had shown, but the dragon has three heads. There must be three._

If fire was his father's obsession, then the coming army of death and ice was Rhaegar's._ Ice__ and__ Fire.__ Fire__ and__ Ice.__ The__ world__ had__ become__ unbalanced__ and__ it__ must__ be __restored,__ else __it__ would__ be__ consumed__ by__ one__ or__ the__ other._

It filled most of his waking thoughts to the point where he barely had mind to give the various petty squabbles and battles of those who lived south of the wall. When the Others came, they would not care which High Lord claimed ownership of a stretch of coastline, or a wood, or a castle—they would take it regardless.

His wife had not long birthed Aegon, and she was still weak, but she had made the journey regardless. The maesters had told them both that she would never bear another child.

_But there would be three dragons when they return—and a dragon without a rider could be a dangerous and uncontrollable beast._

He had thought about his younger brother, Viserys, but when he'd asked seers whether there were dragons in his future they'd replied that the only dragons he would see in his lifetime would be made of stone.

Still, his mother still had her moon blood, and there was no reason why she might not conceive again. Maybe another daughter, a Visenya, an aunt to ride dragons with Aegon and Rhaenys?

The puzzle consumed his thoughts constantly, even now as he followed his royal father and tried not to notice how ill he treated his subjects.

Careful, Father, I may need these people come the next winter.

~X~

Catelyn Tully finished brushing her long auburn hair in her room, and took care that her outfit was just so.

"Cat. Cat, he's here!" Her sister, Lysa burst into the tent, her face flushed.

For a moment, Cat couldn't breathe. She knew he would be here—it was his intention to enter the lists, but to know that he had arrived was a different matter. Brandon Stark, her future husband, was here.

"Where? Show me."

Lysa led her out of the tent at a quick pace. "The Starks are approaching the castle now. I saw their banners—a white field with the grey direwolf."

Her heart pounding and her eyes searching for one knight amongst many others, Catelyn was led through the many corridors of Harrenhal, the largest castle ever built—large enough to house so many of Westeros' nobility and their families that there were much fewer tents than usual pitched outside for a tourney of this size.

Some said that this tourney would have many songs written about it, and that it would be the greatest tourney ever held. If Cat caught a glimpse, a word, or a dance with her future husband, then it would be, she thought.

It wouldn't have been the first time they'd met, but that visit had resulted in her childhood friend being banished from Riverrun. Petyr Baelish, or Littlefinger as he was more commonly known, had challenged Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, to a duel for Cat's own hand.

She'd tried to reason with Petyr, to make him see that this arrangement had been made between two Great Lords as a political alliance, and that after seeing her betrothed Catelyn was more than happy with the choice that had been made, but still her friend had persisted—and had scars to show for it. He may have been killed, but Catelyn had pleaded for his life, and her noble spouse-to-be had relented.

They had reached the walls, and Catelyn jostled for position amongst the many men and women who had gathered there to watch the pageantry and spectacle of the arrival of lords, knights, and their entertainment.

And that was when she saw him, sat on top of a grey destrier, looking as dashing and handsome as she remembered.

His light-brown locks fell straight to his chin, and he had stubble on his jaw—just the right amount, Catelyn thought. As he dismounted, she appreciated his height and warrior's build, and wished that she could go over to him, to speak to him or to hear him laugh, but that wouldn't be seemly.

There will be plenty of time. Our paths will no doubt cross even in a place as vast as this, she thought and allowed herself to swoon. Only a year to wait and we will be man and wife. The hot flushes that always assaulted her body at the idea took over—they might be a good reaction, as the North was said to be cold.

_Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell._ The name felt right upon her tongue, as if it had always been her destiny, and Cat smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Five – Milk, Fire, and Iron

Ned looked up and stared open jawed at the girl he saw standing on the walls above. Many times he had chided Robert for the way he reacted when he first saw Lyanna, and for how his spine turned to water whenever she was near—now he knew why.

She had come to watch the knights and great lords enter, and for a second he'd caught her interest, though it had passed swiftly and her eyes had moved on. As loathe as he was to admit it, she'd looked at Robb for a heartbeat longer.

Still, Ned's eyes were more faithful, and he craned his head to keep her in view. She was tall and slender, and hair as white as milk flowed down her back. She wore a lilac gown and for a moment Ned wondered if they matched her eyes, and whether she might be a Targaryen princess, but then his knowledge of the great houses reminded him that there was not a direct descendant of a similar age as this maid.

It didn't matter—from that moment on she was queen of Eddard Stark's heart. If he'd been of a mind to enter the lists and by some miracle he'd won, then he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty without a second's hesitation.

He suddenly became aware that he was once again being observed, but not by his princess.

Robb looked over his shoulder and followed where Ned's eyes had been focused, and then he beamed widely.

"I never thought I'd see the day that I saw Eddard Stark of Winterfell look at a girl like that. I told Jon Arryn I'd have a positive effect on you one day."

Ned smiled, and tried to swallow down the bitter taste of jealousy as he remembered that the milk princess had stared at Robb for just that little longer than she had at Ned himself. And who could blame her? It was obvious that his fellow ward was here to compete—he had the build and Ned already knew that women found him more attractive.

Accustomed to standing in the shadow that others cast, Ned wished that for once it would be him rather than his friend or his larger than life brother that stole the moment. No one ever looked at the second son of the Lord of Winterfell—it was always Brandon that commanded their attention, and now it seemed that he was also the second ward of Jon Arryn.

For a moment, Ned wondered if he should enter the lists, to see if his mystery lady would notice him, but then he pushed the idea out of his mind. He wasn't the type to seek out violence or glory like Brandon or Robb, and though he was a good swordsman, he wasn't great, and jousting had never interested him.

No, if he could win her favour, whoever she was, he wanted to do it by being himself. Above all, he wanted to know her name, whether she was highborn or baseborn, and whether she was already promised. A woman as beautiful as she was, she must have already caught the eyes of many men, and if she was highborn, what could Eddard as a second son offer her other than his very soul?

Robb laughed at him again as they stopped, and then a number of servants gathered around them as they dismounted. The chaos amplified when a horn sounded, and then the steady stream of arrivals parted.

A roar rose up and Ned looked amongst the crowd to see a knight wearing black plate accompanied by a knight of the Kingsguard. He knew who they both were instantly, just like every other man and woman who looked on.

The knight of the Kingsguard was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and the three-headed red dragon on black was for House Targaryen; he did not have to wait for Prince Rhaegar to remove his helm and wave to know it was him. His white hair contrasted harshly with his dark attire, but he noticed every female in the vicinity draw breath for a second.

Instinctively, his eyes sought out the milk princess and even at a distance he could see that Rhaegar was consuming her thoughts.

What chance would I have to win a girl in present company? Ned thought, but he was interrupted.

"Ned, Robert, follow me. Best to get ourselves settled while everyone else fawns over the good prince."

They followed their foster father's instruction, pausing only to allow two highborn ladies to pass through a door before them. They both had long auburn hair and wore gowns of blue and red—the matching fish broaches that they wore confirmed that they were of House Tully.

No doubt they wanted to look on Rhaegar Targaryen like almost everyone else.

They might be Catelyn and Lysa Tully, Ned pondered. One of them would be his older brother's wife and Lady of Winterfell one day. Brandon had said that his bride was beautiful, and where both girls that passed through the door were fair, only the taller truly caught the eye.

Once the way was clear, he noticed that Robert's eyes followed them, his thumb absent-mindedly running across the scarred line that Brandon had left him with, as he often did when he looked at a fair maid.

~X~

"Father, can I go explore? They say there's a mummer's show." Benjen bounded around his father, barely able to contain his excitement. "Please!"

Lord Rickard expressed his permission with a wave, but before Benjen could run off he said that he must take his older brother...and of course, once he'd allowed it, Lyanna insisted that she should accompany them, too.

Grudgingly, he allowed them to go as he sought out Hoster Tully to speak of arrangements for Brandon's wedding. The time was drawing near. He had seen the girl in question about the castle and there was no doubt that she was now a woman grown.

As Brandon strode in the direction of the various campfires that had sprung up now that the sky had changed from blue to orange and red, Lyanna and Brandon ran circles around him, laughing and in general high spirits.

As Lyanna tried to catch him, Brandon scooped his youngest brother from his feet and threw him over his shoulder to the sound of much squealing. It wasn't lordly behaviour, but now he was out of his stern father's sight, he wanted to play just as much as the other two wolf cubs.

Then he caught sight of his other brother Ned and Robert Baratheon and put Ben down. Lyanna was the first to reach Ned, running over and embracing him roughly, bringing a smile to his younger brother's face. Brandon laughed to himself as he watched his brother's companion, the stag, turn into a rabbit before his eyes.

If he is going to compete in the melee as he intended, then it might be best for Lyanna to stay away, Brandon thought to himself. Otherwise, Robert Baratheon might shame himself on the field. His younger sister thought ill enough of the fact she had to marry without taking away the comfort of the fact that she was to be wed to a man who could most likely a stronger fighter than her.

Their children will be fierce, Brandon thought to himself, and Storm's End will be a strong ally, should I ever need them.

He looked on in satisfaction when he saw the puckered line under Robert's chin where he had held the sword to it that day, and then paused to speak to them both. Not that Robert spoke much while Lyanna was around, and when his sister and Ben grew restless, he gladly allowed them to explore on their own.

Free of their older brother, Benjen now felt able to confide in Lyanna, his most trusted sibling and partner in most of his mischeifs. He took her hand and dragged her behind him.

"Where are we going?" she said with a laugh.

He stopped long enough to pull something out from beneath his cloak—the jewelled ornament he often wore to fasten his cloak, in the shape of a wolf's head.

"I'm going to sell this."

Lyanna looked puzzled. "Why would you want to sell it?"

Benjen's smile stretched across his face as he prepared to unveil his secret plan. "I need to buy a horse and a suit of armour. I'm entering the lists."

It took a few moments for his sister to believe him, but once she did she laughed. "If I can knock you from your horse what chance will you have against Prince Rhaegar or Ser Barristen Selmy, or a list of other I don't have a care to name...and what will Father say? And you're not a knight."

"Father won't know," Benjen said, slightly less confident than his first admission. "I'm not entering as Benjen of House Stark—I'm going to be a mystery knight."


	6. Chapter 6

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Six – Secrets and Ill-Gotten Gains

Whispering and giggling, Lyanna and Benjen found a quiet corner of Harrenhal's two acre godswood, Lyanna leading a horse and Ben carrying clanking sacks of armour.

Satisfied that they were not likely to be discovered as almost everyone else was in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths waiting to eat, drink, and be merry, they sat themselves on the ground and looked through what they'd managed to buy in exchange for Benjen's wolf.

Picking up a dark grey gauntlet and a plain but rusty helm that covered the entire face, with only a narrow slit to see out of and a few holes to breathe through, Lyanna shook her head.

"I'd be surprised if we have two pieces that match in the entire suit. You're going to look like the sorriest excuse for a hedge knight anyone has ever seen."

"Well, I couldn't walk up to an armourer and ask for a full suit of plate armour in my size, could I? Whoever it was would recognise me immediately once I unhorsed Prince Rhaegar, and then Father would find out. Besides, we didn't have enough coin for that."

Lyanna rolled her eyes at her brother's overconfidence.

"So instead you have all the unwanted bits and pieces that would have been thrown away or melted down. At least you got a decent horse and a decent shield." Lyanna pulled the shield out of the bag and looked at it. The paint was scratched and it was dented, but it was good and solid yet still light. "You're going to need to paint it, or are you planning to pass yourself off as a poor cousin of the Fossoways?"

Benjen put down a greave and looked at the shield with Lyanna. "I need lances, too. How am I going to smuggle them here. It's not like I can hide one under my jerkin."

Lyanna thought for a second. "We can't do anything now—we need to go join the others or we'll be missed." She picked up a sack, pulled hard and tore it, handing it to Ben. "Get up early in the morning, wrap this around you, and act like a poor squire. Brandon brought more lances than he could ever possibly need."

Tipping out a sack of hay for his horse, Ben nodded, but then looked puzzled. "But Brandon will recognise his lances."

"Then I'll paint them, too, when I do the shield." Lyanna got to her feet. "But come on. If we're missing for much longer, they'll think we're up to no good."

~X~

Brandon was already drunk when Ben and Lyanna rushed in and seated themselves on a bench by Ned and Robert Baratheon. Their father gave them a stern look but didn't break off his conversation with Lord Arryn.

Robert instantly looked uncomfortable and where he had been laughing and sharing bawdy jokes minutes earlier, he fell silent. Earlier he'd nudged Ned when a young woman walked into the great hall, and his younger brother had gone a bright shade of beet red.

So Ned did like girls after all, Brandon thought—that was reassuring, though he might have picked someone more achieveable. Ashara Dayne—he'd seen her once or twice at a distance, she was one of Princess Elia's companions, and it seemed that half of Westeros was in love with her.

Brandon took a long deep drink and looked at her. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. With so many potential suitors, would she really look twice at his younger brother?

She looked up, laughed at something someone said, and then her eyes met Brandon's. Their gazes locked, Brandon smirked and Ashara smiled back.

~X~

Giving the excuse of being tired, Lyanna left the hall. Her betrothed had barely said two words to her, but she knew that as soon as he was gone, he would be more talkative.

He'd find his tongue in time, she consoled herself. As far as husbands went, he had a pleasing face and physique, he was Lord of Storm's End so it was a good match, and he had a reputation for being an able fighter...amongst other things, particularly his fondness for women.

Truth be told, Lyanna didn't want to be married. She wanted to stay at home with her brothers and carry with life as she always had. At Storm's End there would be no laughing, joking Brandon, and no Ben to sneak away and joust with. Chances were that Ned would have returned North so he wouldn't even be close in the Eeyrie, though as a friend to her future husband, he was likely to visit often.

Walking across the yard, Lyanna noticed how quiet it was, and slipped out into the camps, listening to the sound of numerous singers' voices, and laughter. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she made her way though the tents to where she'd seen a woman painting earlier. A number of men heckled her, mistaking her for a whore but she quickly walked by, paying them little notice.

The woman was sitting roasting a scrawny bird over a campfire when she arrived, and she happily agreed to hand over some blue, white and red paint in return for a few coins. As she headed back to her room, the paint under her cloak, she took a wrong turn in Harrenhal and came across a knight and a young lady pressed closely together in a corner.

Lyanna froze—other than the fact one was male and one was female they looked alike, golden haired and green eyed, and dressed richly in red and gold.

"Jamie and Cersei Lannister."

The twins from Casterly Rock pushed themselves apart and did their best to look innocent, but Lyanna wasn't fooled. They hadn't been embracing like brothers and sisters should, and Lyanna felt more than a little sick.

"You didn't see anything here," Cersei said, her eyes wide and frightened, but her tone was threatening. Her brother put his hand on the hilt of the sword he was wearing.

After an awkward pause, Lyanna spoke quietly and slowly. "I could forget what I saw...if you would do something for me in return." This chance encounter could work out quite well.

The twins looked between each other, but this time it was Jamie that responded, "And what would that be?"

Smiling, Lyanna stepped closer to the two of them. "You're a knight, Lannister. I need you to vouch for a friend of mine who wants to enter the lists. A mystery knight."

"If he was really a knight, then I'm sure he'd have no trouble entering. If he hadn't earned the title of _Ser_, then it's only right that he shouldn't be allowed. We don't allow just anyone to joust."

"Who he is and why he needs you to vouch for him is none of your concern. However, what you were doing..."

Cersei stepped between the unfamiliar girl and her brother. "He'll vouch for your friend."

"Why, thank you. I bid you goodnight, and have a...pleasant evening." Lyanna grinned, curtsied and walked away.

~X~

In the morning, Lyanna had already painted the shield blue and was pondering what sigil to use for Ben's mystery knight, when her brother came walking over, a collection of Brandon's black, white and grey lances in hand.

As she watched him approach, she caught sight of the heart tree behind him—quite possibly the ugliest heart tree she'd ever seen. She thought and then dipped her brush in the white paint.

"What are you painting," Ben asked, placing the lances carefully on the floor.

Concentrating, Lyanna brushed a strand of her away from her face. "A heart tree—we're here in the godswood, and we keep the old gods at Winterfell. It's as personal as I can get without putting a direwolf on there."

Nodding, Ben agreed with her idea, but added, "Don't give it a face like that one." He pointed over to the heart tree. "It gives me the creeps. It looks like it hates me."

Lyanna wiped the white from her brush and dipped it into the red, painting two red eyes and an exaggerated smile.

"That's perfect." Ben said, messing her hair.

"It needs time to dry. Let's use the time to decide who you should challenge. I found someone who'll vouch for you for when you enter tomorrow."

"Who?" Ben asked, and when his sister explained, he questioned her all the way to the Brandon's tent for the tourney as to how she'd managed to convince him to do that. Her lips were sealed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Seven – Admiration and Anticipation

"I found it in the moat. Look, it has less rust spots and is newer than the one we already have."

Lyanna took the tourney sword from Benjen and inspected it. He was right—it was in better condition than the scrap metal he had paid good coin for, yet she still had to shake her head at the fact that a thrown away sword was better than most of what they'd managed to scavenge.

Having a moment of hesitation, Lyanna wondered if letting Ben enter the tourney was a mistake. If he was discovered or if he disgraced himself, Father would be furious, not to mention the fact they'd be the laughing stock of the entire tourney.

_Ben__ won__'__t__ disgrace__ himself.__ He__ may__ not __be __a__ champion__ or __a__ Ser,__ but__ one__ day__ he__ will__ be_. Lyanna had watched him practicing many times, and felt certain that he would fare reasonably well. _But __not__ as __well__ as __I__ would_, she thought and then swallowed down the ball of jealousy forming in her throat. _If__ I__ were __a__ boy,__ I__ would__ be __doing__ the__ same._

"Yes, it's much better. You didn't happen to find a full suit of boy-sized armour in there, too?"

Benjen winced a little, as if he knew the direction his sister's thoughts had taken. "Everyone loves a mystery knight. They may think that my poor armour is an attempt to disguise the fact that I'm rich."

"That might be so...and they may also believe that its small size is to hide the fact you're really seven-feet-tall and built like a giant."

Serious grey eyes met an equally serious pair of grey eyes, and then both faces collapsed into a smile.

A sudden hand on both their shoulders made them jump with shock; without thinking, Lyanna hid the sword she was holding behind her back as she quickly turned around.

"Hmmm...Ben and Lyanna walking together looking as guilty as sin. I hate to think what it is you're plotting."

"Brandon! You almost made me jump out of my skin!" Ben laughed.

"That's strangely apt. Father wants to see you." Brandon paused and watched his youngest brother's face drop. "Don't worry...it has almost nothing to do with the old tourney sword Lyanna is hiding behind her back."

"We were just practicing...in the godswood. No one saw us, I promise." Ben's justification came out a little too quickly.

"Is that so? And you wouldn't happen to know anything about a number of missing lances at all?"

Ben shook his head, but Lyanna smirked.

"Why? Are you scared we'll take your armour and one of your horses and show you how it's done?"

For a moment, thunder rolled across Brandon's brow, but then he gave a loud laugh straight from his belly. "The day one of you can fit into my armour I will worry about that."

He reached around Lyanna, and though she tried to squirm away, it wasn't enough to keep him from taking the sword. He inspected it for a moment and then handed it back, seemingly satisfied that it wasn't his.

"Practice while you can, sweet sister. I get the feeling Robert will expect you to learn to handle another type of sword once you're wed."

Lyanna failed to find the humour and it was her turn to scowl, and she continued to do so even when Ben left to find their Lord father.

"Come." Brandon offered Lyanna his arm. "It seems Princess Elia is taking some air with her ladies."

Wrinkling her nose, Lyanna was about to object but Brandon was already leading her away by the hand that wasn't holding a tourney sword.

"Why are you so keen to watch royalty going for a stroll? It's her husband who is the knight."

Brandon turned and gave her a wide grin. "I'm trying to catch a fine wife for Ned, because the gods know he'll never find one on his own."

"Isn't that for Father to decide?"

"Father has been doing some thinking about his children's futures—that is why he's asked for Ben to go to him." Brandon now had Lyanna's full attention. "And he believes that, because he has made such good matches for his heir and his daughter—and they are good matches, no matter how you might feel about them—he is going to allow gentle Ned to marry for love."

"Ned's in love?" Lyanna asked in disbelief.

Brandon's smile was her answer. "If you would play the genteel lady for a moment, and pretend to be interested in hairstyles and dresses and the like for a moment, then I will show you who...and you can help me decide whether we she would make our brother a suitable bride. If so, then I'll tell Father."

For once in her life, Lyanna smiled and did as she was told.

Ser Barristan Selmy walked by Princess Elia's litter as she took in the sights and sounds of Harrenhal. She looked as beautiful as ever, but the dark shadows under her eyes and the weariness in her voice reminded him of her recent brush with death.

She had almost perished during the birth of Princess Rhaenys, and the birth of her royal son had been twice as perilous. Ser Barristan found it amazing that she had managed to travel the distance to Harrenhal so soon, though it was obvious to him that she was still very weak.

Wherever Prince Rhaegar was, she wanted to be with him, though it had to be said that the prince spent most of his waking hours performing his royal duties, practicing with the sword or the lance, or reading until almost dawn in the Great Library. The rest of their time was spent together with their children.

Ser Barristan had to admit that it was nice to see the prince and princess show such devotion to each other and their family, as the king and queen had no such relationship. Ser Barristan had seen many things that he wished he hadn't while serving Aerys, and the king seemed to be becoming more volatile by the day.

He had hopes that, if the seven willed him to still serve the kingsguard when Rhaegar succeeded his father, the son would be a much more stable ruler. From what he had observed from a distance, he added mentally.

In the beginning, Aerys had seemed as fair and promising, yet Ser Barristan had seen him grow to be twisted and suspicious. The man that he'd rescued from Duskendale had been a far cry from the prince that had been crowned after King Jaehaerys' death.

Though he had sworn his oath to protect the king and not to judge him, Ser Barristan much preferred guarding the other members of his family. Rhaegar did not require him often, as he was mostly guarded by his close friend and confidante, Ser Arthur Dayne. No, it was the princess that Ser Barristan always hoped to be asked to accompany.

His eyes sought out the reason for this preference. Ashara Dayne—with her hair pale enough that she could be a Targaryen princess herself, and pale lilac eyes so haunting that one look almost crumbled a man's resolve. Ser Barristan Selmy himself broke his vows with her almost every night in his dreams.

He was in love with her, and hopelessly so because he was a member of the elite kingsguard, and part of his vows had been to take no wife and father no children. So Ser Barristan would have to be content to adore her from a distance, and to not show how much it hurt him to think that one day she would marry another man and give him heirs.

Ashara had many admirers, and though he had become accustomed to others being captivated by her beauty, it never pained him any less to wonder if she found the admirer fair in return.

As he stared as covertly as he could, he found her smiling at someone in the crowd and followed the line of her eyes—a man and a young girl, both visibly highborn. He wore the sigil of a grey wolf on white—Starks, Brandon, Lord Rickard's heir, and presumably his daughter, Lyanna.

At first, Ser Barristan hoped that the object of his affections was familiar with Lord Stark's daughter, but the northern girl's attention soon drifted and she looked at the knights around her. Her brother was smiling back in Ashara's direction.

Ser Barristan's heart skipped a beat, but then he remembered hearing that Lord Rickard's eldest was betrothed to one of Lord Hoster Tully's daughters, and that was a marriage alliance that only a fool would break. He exhaled in relief and brought his attention back to Princess Elia.

~X~

Stunned, Benjen Stark exited his father's quarters and returned to the sea of tents that had now grown up outside Harrenhal.

His father had told him that when Lord Bolton's current squire had become a Ser as was expected, Ben would travel to the Dreadfort to take his place and serve Lord Bolton until Ben had earned his own knighthood.

Being a knight was all that Ben had ever dreamed of, and now he was on the verge of making that a reality...but for Lord Bolton?

His father's reasoning was sound, Ben knew it—Lord Bolton was one of his most powerful bannermen, from a house that had a history of conflict with their liege lords. Lord Bolton had no children as yet, so there was no chance of appeasing him with a marriage, so Benjen would be sent as a peace offering.

The thought made him nauseous—Nan had told him many stories of what happened in the dungeons of the Dreadfort when the Boltons rebelled against the Starks, and Ben had no urge to be flayed and displayed with the others.

As he walked, Ben was snapped out of his daze by the sound of jeering.

A man in black with a loud booming voice was telling tales of the frozen north and the valiant deeds the men of the Night's Watch carried out in the name of honour and defence of the realm. Yet very few people had stopped to listen and most just laughed as they passed by. Many others heckled him, asking what kind of honour thieves and rapists had, and how many snarks he had killed beyond the wall.

Ben paused for a while to watch the man continue, unfazed by the humour he was inadvertently causing.

After a few minutes, Ben became aware of a dark presence to his left, and looked up to see a figure wearing black standing over him. "They don't realise that the men who take the black are the first line of defence between the seven kingdoms and the horror that lies beyond, else they would give this recruiter the respect he deserves."

For a moment, Ben thought the elderly black knight was a member of the Night's Watch himself, but then he saw that the face amongst the almost white hair was young, and that his black armour was heavily ornate and studded with rubies.

"My prince." Ben lowered his head and looked at his shoes while he composed himself. When he lifted his eyes, he saw the prince smiling.

"You're a Stark," the Prince said. "Starks have manned the wall for as long as can be remembered. It's said you have ice as well as the blood of the First Men in your blood, and you love the cold as much as I love the sun."

Ben gave a small chuckle, and then wondered whether that was appropriate in the presence of royalty or whether he should be bowing as low as he could. "Benjen Stark, my lord. I like being warm as much as the next man. At Winterfell we have heated springs to warm the castle during winter."

"Well met, Benjen Stark. I daresay the wolf would learn to survive in the snow, should it need to. So few _good_ men choose to don the black these days. Has the man persuaded you to go to the Wall?"

_No,_ Ben thought, _but__ Prince __Rhaegar__ Targaryen__ gives__ a__ convincing__ argument_. "No, my lord. I'm to be a squire for one of my father's bannermen. I want to be a knight someday."

For a moment, Ben wondered if the prince would be angry at his response, but instead he gave a sad smile. "Well, the realm could always use a few more good knights." Prince held out his hand and Ben took it. "But please promise me one thing..."

"Anything, my prince."

"Never forget...'Winter is Coming.' Truer words were never spoken."

Ben nodded his agreement, and bit his tongue when he thought to point out that winter had already been and gone, and that spring was upon them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Eight – The Crannogman

Once Brandon was willing to let her go, Lyanna wandered away to enjoy the sights and sounds on the way to find Benjen, if their father was finished with him. She wondered what it was that he had decided for her youngest brother.

It seemed to Lyanna that her family was finally growing up and going their separate ways. It wouldn't be too long before Brandon was married to Catelyn Tully, who he had pointed out from a distance. She had seemed well enough—she was pretty, with long red hair and blue eyes, and she'd smiled politely and curtsied once she noticed she was being observed. Lyanna had thought she'd caught a mischievous glint in her eyes and had smiled back.

Better than the girl that Brandon had said that Ned adored—she was too...girlie. And Lyanna hadn't liked the way she had looked at Brandon.

Brandon had been looking back, but that was because he was assessing her as a marriage prospect for their brother, wasn't it? Lyanna felt a little uncomfortable at the idea of their being a mutual attraction between already betrothed Brandon and Ashara Dayne if she wed Ned.

Though Lyanna thought that she might have to accept infidelity as a fact of life if Robert's current lovesickness wore off once they were married. He had a voracious appetite for women and drinking that almost rivalled Lyanna's own appetite for riding and playing at being knight in secret, and she knew she'd never want to give up her passion if there was any way she could continue.

Lyanna's train of thought was frozen in its tracks as she saw a scuffle—a squire pushed a younger boy down to the floor, and then his two companions kicked him as he lay there, curling himself into a ball.

"Hey," Lyanna yelled, but they didn't turn their attention away from the beating they were giving the boy. She drew the tourney sword from its scabbard and strode forward.

When she reached the first squire she pushed him and yelled, "That's my father's man you're kicking."

For a second, the squire was taken aback, but then he recognised that she was only a girl and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Lyanna hit him hard on the leg with the flat of her sword, and he squeaked in response.

The second squire got a blow to the side of his head as he turned to look, and then the third stepped away as she held the sword with both hands, poised to strike.

"Do your masters know that your idea of honour is kicking a small boy when he is lying on the floor? You should be ashamed, and not least because you were stopped by a woman."

The squires gave her a resentful look as they limped away, and a crowd that had gathered around parted for them.

Holding out her hand to the bloodied figure on the floor, Lyanna noticed that he wasn't as young as she first thought. He was short, with curly unkempt hair, and wearing a dirtied green shirt with a number of bronze disks sewn onto it. She'd seen men dressed this way before, at great feasts that her father had held down the years.

"You're a crannogman."

His kind inhabited the swamps and marshes around the Neck, a natural defence on the way north. More importantly, the Starks were their liege lords. He was as much of the North as she was.

Groaning as he got to his feet, he seemed to be in his late teens rather than of a similar age to Benjen as his height suggested. Once he straightened himself, Lyanna realised she was an inch or so taller than he was.

"Yes, my name is Howland of House Reed." He wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. "If those boys should be ashamed of being vanquished by a girl, maybe I should feel more ashamed that I had to rely on you to rescue me...but thank you."

"A Reed...of Greywater Watch?"

Howland nodded in confirmation.

"Lyanna of House Stark. You're as highborn and have as much right to be here as those cretins that attacked you. Come with me." Lyanna grabbed him firmly by his hand, much to his surprise, and he seemed hesitant. "We have a maester who could clean your cuts and heal your bruises. Please?"

At first he refused, but finally relented and allowed her to lead him inside Harrenhal. Lyanna smiled at his expression of awe—the men of the swamps lived an isolated life in light wooden castles that could be moved. Harrenhal, which was vast to even those accustomed to living in a great stone castles, must have seemed like a wonder of the world.

As they walked, Lyanna explained how it was twisted and blackened because of Aegon the Conqueror's dragons, and that as whoever held it seemed to perish before their time, it was said to be cursed.

Howland listened intently, and she continued her tales even while the maester bound his wounds.

After hearing the excitement over their sister's escapades, it didn't take long for her brothers to join her. Ned offered Howland a place to stay in his quarters, and being similar in size Ben offered the newcomer a set of less conspicuous clothing.

Once he was dressed and washed, he could have passed for any young lordling. In fact, as they entered the Great Hall, more people took note of Lyanna than Howland.

She could read the expressions on their faces—for a young woman to wield a sword the way she had was unheard of. They thought she was an abomination, a blight on her family, and the type of girl that became an old spinster, dying alone with the shame of embarrassing her family.

Lyanna looked at her future spouse, and was reassured that he wasn't about to break their betrothal because of her actions. If anything he seemed to be staring at her with eyes wider than usual. As they ate, he even managed to say, "Well done."

He soon looked away when Lyanna smiled back, and she thought she saw a red flush rising up his neck.

Could it be that Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storms End, actually approved of her behaviour? Liked her the way that she was and would not expect her to behave like a traditional lady? For the first time ever, Lyanna thought that her marriage might be perfect.

Sitting between Lyanna and Brandon, though he was more of an age with Ned and Robert, Howland looked on in amazement at the largest gathering of people he had ever seen. The hall must have had a hundred fire places, most of which were lit, and every guest was garbed in their finery, each emblazoned with the sigils of their houses. While he stared open mouthed at the colourful feast for his eyes, Howland stiffened when he found the three squires that had embarrassed him earlier.

"House Blount, House Frey, and House Haigh," Lyanna confirmed, and then pointed them out to her brothers who shared her opinion on their lack of honour.

Then Prince Rhaegar called for his harp, and the entire hall fell silent. His princess, sitting to his left, stared in adoration, while his father to his right sipped his wine, his mouth hard and his expression sour.

He sang a song of a lady so dismayed by her lover's constant indiscretions that she climbed to the top of a high tower, and after lamenting all the things she had left behind for this loveless existence, she jumped to her death.

It hit a little too close to Lyanna's own heart, and after previously sending smiles in Robert's direction, tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Ben laughed. "Be careful, sister. People might actually start to believe you are a girl after all."

Without saying a word, Lyanna picked up her cup of wine, upended it over her youngest brother's head, and then stormed out.

After a few shocked seconds, everyone who had witnessed the act smiled about it, proclaiming the she-wolf of Stark a fearsome creature. The only person who stayed silent about Lyanna's exit was Robb, who swallowed down huge gulps of wine, lest he be swallowed himself from the inside out by the admiration he felt.

Once he was too drunk for conversation, and Brandon and Ned were deep in conversation, Ben shuffled closer to Howland.

"I can see you looking at the squires who wronged you earlier. If you like...and if you promised to keep it secret...I could find you a horse and some armour that might fit if you wanted to joust and defend your honour."

Howland considered the offer for a moment, and was tempted, only giving his thanks and no answer.

He had never seen jousting, let alone tried his own hand at it, though he stared at the squires and dreamed for a moment. Finally, he realised that he was more likely to shame himself further by attempting to claim some kind of vengeance, and then they'd laugh all over again about how foolish and weak crannogmen were.

He wasn't weak; he was just a stranger in this world, unaccustomed to their ways and practices. If the three squires had met him in his world, amongst the trees, swamps, and rivers, they would be strung up in nets and have darts in their rumps with all manner of poisons to make life uncomfortable for them for a while.

I will watch the jousting with my new friends tomorrow, he thought, and then I will know whether I can joust or not.

Trying to forget about his shame, he focused on a collection of dancers enjoying the music now the dragon prince had ceased his ballad and the other players had struck up something a little more jolly.

In their midst was a girl with long white hair who was as light footed as she was fair, and who danced with a different man for every song. Howland noticed Ned watching her intently, though he never made a move to join the others in asking for a turn. In the end, his older brother got to his feet to talk to the pretty maid.

As Brandon drew close, Ashara gave the widest smile she'd given all night.

"I was hoping the wolf from the north would ask me for a dance."

"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you, my lady. I come here to ask on the behalf of another."

Ashara's face dropped, so Brandon continued, "It might seem unseemly if I dance with the most beautiful woman in the world while in the presence of my betrothed.

His compliment seemed to brighten her mood somewhat. "Then who is it who wishes to dance with me?"

"My younger brother, Eddard. He hasn't taken his eyes from you all evening."

Ashara looked over his shoulder in the direction he'd been sitting, and found Eddard staring. His face went as red as a beet and he averted his eyes.

"He's not like you at all. He blushes like a maid. He's not as handsome as you, or as wild and fierce. I daresay you wouldn't blush like that," she said, her tone becoming flirtatious.

Trying to swallow down his reaction at her dismissal, Brandon smiled. "Ned is a better man than me in many ways. Will you dance with him?"

Thinking for a moment, Ashara chewed at her nail. "I will dance with him, and him alone for the rest of the feast if it pleases you, if you would do one small thing for me..."

"And what would that be, my lady?"

Ashara gave her most seductive smile. "I want you to come and find me after the feast, away from prying eyes, and promise that you'll dance with me for the rest of the night."

Feeling torn between disappointing his brother or shaming him in private, Brandon hesitated before agreeing, and then returned to give Ned the good news.

He sat in silence as he watched Ned take to the floor, no one taking much notice of the conflict he was going through. Ashara was as good as her word. She danced with no one else, and her eyes barely left Ned's face while everyone watched, stealing only the slightest of glances in Brandon's direction when she could.

I'm doing this for my brother, he told himself. Ned was quiet, but given a chance a woman was bound to admire him for his quiet intelligence and sense of honour—something Brandon envied him. Sometimes Brandon wished he had been born second rather than first—with his volatile temper and impulsive nature the responsibility of being the future Lord Stark never sat well. Ned would have bore the duty well.

But, that wasn't the way it had worked out, and Brandon wanted to see Ned married for love rather duty like Brandon would have to be. No doubt "dancing" with Ashara would be one of the more pleasant duties he'd had to perform, no matter how much it irked him.

For Ned, he reassured himself, and took a long drink.

When Robb fell asleep with his head on the table, the oldest Stark sibling offered to see him safely to his quarters. Soon after the dancing was over, and Ned bid his dancing partner farewell. As Howland walked with him back to their shared room, he noticed that Eddard Stark had a new lightness in his step, and his shy smile seemed bolder.

Watching from his window, King Aerys looked down on the merrymakers leaving the feast and gave a look of disgust.

"Look at them," he said to himself. "Fools, all of them. All my son has to do to win them over is sing a sad song. Does he think that is how he'll remove me from my throne? Does my perfect boy think some pretty armour and a few well placed lances will put the crown on his head any sooner? I think not."

Aerys walked over to his bed and climbed under the furs.

"No, if he wins the throne that way then one day someone who can joust better, with prettier armour and a sweeter singing voice, will remove him. I will show him that. He must learn. They must learn.

"If he defies me, he will burn, and anyone else who wishes to rebel—against me or my heir. It will not be tolerated."

The king fell asleep with a smile on his face as he watched both his enemies and his son's go up in flames in his dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Seven – The Dragon and the Direwolf

As his squire helped him into his armour, Rhaegar Targaryen stood in silence, lost in his own thoughts.

The night before he'd had another dragon dream—it had been vivid and haunted him once he awoke.

Dragon dreams always disconcerted him as he was only too aware of the knife's edge between inspiration and insanity in the Targaryen line, and how many of his own kin fell to the wrong side because of their obsessions. He had only to look at his father's deterioration for an example that hit too close to home.

The king was entranced by fire, and paranoid that his throne would be taken from him—Rhaegar often saw suspicious eyes trained in his direction. Who was king and how good or bad of a ruler they were was nothing compared to what was to come, Rhaegar thought to himself. Dragons would return, as would the ice demons and walking dead in the north. That is all I care about—not crowns.

In his dream he'd been a black dragon, coiled around a tower; he knew the very one—a simple place near the Red Mountains on the way to Dorne. He had watched a shining silver knight appear in the distance riding a white horse, or at least that was what he had thought at first. When the knight got closer, Rhaegar saw that he was slight of form, the armour was made of ice not metal, and the horse was, in fact, a freakishly large wolf.

A direwolf—the sigil of House Stark, Rhaegar had noted. When the Others and wights attacked it would be the North that faced them first.

Dragon Rhaegar unwound himself from the tower, and belched forth a stream of fire in the knight's direction. Holding up his ice shield, the knight waited for Rhaegar to fully exhale his breath of flame, and then charged with his icicle lance.

On the third charge, the ice lance had pierced dragon Rhaegar through the chest, but as it passed through his flesh, Rhaegar had melted the knight and charred the wolf with his last burst of dragonfire.

The third charge, Rhaegar realised. Always the same number—always three. Why had he fought the ice knight? Was it just a dream or was there more to be learned? Rhaegar knew that dreams often made sense of the thoughts a man had when awake.

After the dragon had fallen to earth, landing on the burned wolf, he'd felt himself rot away until charred wolf bones tangled amongst black dragon ribs. A blue rose had grown amongst them, and then the dirt of the Red Mountains had turned to snow, freezing the rose and burying the bones.

What did it mean? Rhaegar found at least twenty possibilities, none of which seemed correct. The problem with potential prophecies was that it was easy to make it fit a set of circumstances, but the true meaning only became apparent in the fullness of time, after the opportunity to change fate had passed.

Rhaegar had lived most of his adult life trying to bring prophecies to life, and trying to find sense in dreams and the ramblings of seers. This was his obsession—the legacy of his Targaryen bloodline.

Once fully armoured in his black plate studded with rubies, Rhaegar tried to bring his mind back to the present moment, and allowed himself to be led to his charger—draped in black, with flashes of yellow, orange, and red.

Leaving off his helm as he rode to the tourney field with his entourage in tow, Rhaegar waved to the onlookers.

_They__ must__ love__ me__ enough __to __follow__ me,__ even__ when__ the__ Others__ strike__ fear __into __their__ hearts_, he thought. _They__ must__ trust__ my __judgement._

There was a roar as he entered the field, his followers making their ways to the stands to watch the jousting. Rhaegar bowed to his father and his princess wife, seated in the centre of the stands. Elia smiled and blew a kiss, but his father only scowled.

His squire handed him his helm—black with a flowing streamer of orange, yellow, and red—but before he placed it on his head he looked at the faces in the crowd. The familiar faces of Elia's ladies in waiting looked back, and those of his friends, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Richard Lonmouth. Either side of the king stood Lord Commander Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent.

He saw Jamie Lannister, standing tall and proud as he wore the new white cloak his father had pinned on him earlier—the young blond knight was now the youngest member of the kingsguard. Rhaegar wondered how long before the boy realised that the "honour" that the king had bestowed on him was, in fact, a slight towards his father.

_Another__ slight_, Rhaegar thought as he saw Jamie's twin sister, Cersei. Tywin Lannister, the King's Hand, had intended Cersei to be a princess, but when the time came to announce her betrothal to Rhaegar himself, King Aerys had used it for another opportunity to punish Tywin for his success and popularity. Instead, the king had announced that Elia Martell of Dorne was to be his daughter-in-law.

Near the king sat various Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Lord Robert Baratheon of Storms End, Lord Arryn of the Vale, and his Stark ward...

Rhaegar remembered his dream and gave the northman a closer look. He knew that Lord Stark's heir was a keen jouster and expected him to compete in this very tournament, and yesterday he had run across the youngest Stark, green yet dreaming of honour in battle and a future as a knight. But what of the middle son?

The prince realised that he knew nothing about Eddard Stark. He knew of no betrothals, no details of his prowess with weapons, and had no idea of his personality—just that he was the second son of Lord Stark, the ward of Lord Arryn, and companion of young Lord Baratheon. Would he be the wolf knight in ice armour, or would it be his brothers?

His eyes found the rest of the Starks—Lord Rickard, young Benjen Stark, and presumably his sister, Lyanna, a pretty maid destined to be the future Lady of Storm's End and if rumour was correct, a spirited wolf herself. A young companion who Rhaegar was unfamiliar with sat with the Starks.

Then Prince Rhaegar's opponent appeared on the field—tall Lord Yohn Royce, resplendent in the bronze armour that had earned him the name "Bronze Yohn." The armour was ancient, and decorated with runes said to protect the wearer from harm.

Would they protect him from wights, the Others, or dragonfire? Rhaegar thought not and grabbed his helm, pulling the visor down over his face. He waited as Bronze Yohn did the same and then reached for his lance.

There was a moment's pause as he waited for Lord Royce to arm himself, and then he dug his heels into his horse's sides.

Galloping forward, Rhaegar lowered his lance at the last moment, hitting the bronze shield square and true, visibly jolting its bearer. Slowing his horse at the end of the rail, Rhaegar knew that he had unseated the knight by the sound of cheering and that there was no lance waiting for him to collect and charge again.

Lifting his visor, he saw the bronze knight lying on his back in the dirt, before he rolled over clumsily.

In the stands, Catelyn Tully cheered and looked around for her sister. This morning when they'd awoken she'd complained of being ill as she so often seemed to be of late. It was a shame—Catelyn missed having her sister with her when she'd watched her betrothed defeat one of the Whents.

She had been so proud—if he was champion of Harrenhal, then it would be her, Catelyn, that would be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at the tournament. As his future wife it was unlikely that he would insult her by choosing anyone else.

Her dreams had seemed a little less likely after she'd watched the display by Prince Rhaegar. Brandon had seemed almost clumsy in comparison.

Lysa would have loved the jousting, and the prince was so handsome. Her sister had almost wailed as he'd sang the previous evening; Cat had been moved but not to the same extent, and wondered why Lysa had seemed so overly emotional of late.

Maybe she just missed Petyr?

Truth be told, Cat missed him too. Right now he would have been sitting by them, whispering in their ear the chances that each knight had against the other. In her head, she could hear him saying that Brandon Stark would not fare well against the prince.


	10. Chapter 10

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Ten – The Mystery Knight

The two youngest Stark siblings walked behind Brandon as he made his way to the noisy and crowded room where challengers entered the lists. Ben was talking animatedly with Brandon's squire while Lyanna determined who had made it through to the second day. Her eyes found the sigils she was looking for—porcupine, pitchfork, and twin towers—and she smiled to herself.

Small groups of men had formed, and their combined voices became a roar—the louder it got, the more they shouted. Brandon pushed his way through to the front and Lyanna and Ben followed.

The clerk sat in front of his ledger didn't look up as he wearily asked, "Name?" When there was no reply he lifted his head and recognition registered on his face. "Ser Brandon Stark of Winterfell. And who do you wish to challenge, my lord?"

"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." Once Brandon had answered, the tone of the murmurs within hearing distance changed and the clerk's face paled.

"I'm afraid the good prince's challenger has already been chosen. Ser Arthur Dayne entered his name—"

The knight of the kingsguard in question looked up from the group he was standing with, and then walked over to the table.

"I heard my name?"

The clerk stammered. "Ser Brandon...h-he wished to challenge Prince Rhaegar..."

Ser Arthur looked at the man the clerk seemed so intimidated by. "One of the Starks." Even without the direwolf on his shield, he had a recognisable wild, stern look of the North about him; last night his good friend had confided about a dream of wolf knights he'd had the previous night. "I'm sure that the prince would relish Ser Brandon's challenge. I will go and inform him of the change of plan."

Bowing, the white cloaked knight went to leave the room, finding that the way parted easier than he had expected. Suddenly, there was a peal of laughter that grew closer.

There was a clanking amongst the noise, and a short knight approached wearing ill-fitting armour that could only be described as patchwork—a painted greave here, a black iron boots, and mismatched gauntlets. His shield was painted with a white weirwood on blue.

_He__ can __barely__ walk __in__ his__ armour,_ Ser Arthur thought to himself. _Surely__ he__ doesn__'__t__ expect__ to__ joust._

The clerk seemed to be thinking in a similar vein as he asked, "This must be a joke...Ser."

The patchwork knight finally reached the front table.

"I wish to enter the lists." The mystery knight's voice was unnaturally loud, as if he thought that his booming tone might disguise his usual tone. Sniggering and derisory comments could be heard in the background.

"I'm afraid only experienced knights may enter."

"That is what I am. Don't let my attempt to mask my identity fool you."

The murmuring grew louder, and the clerk raised his hand for a little quiet. "And what might your name be, good ser?" Sarcasm dripped from his tongue as he spoke.

"I have no name. I am a nameless knight."

A wave of laughter flowed over the room before it fell quiet, waiting for the farce to continue.

"If you cannot give a name then how can anyone vouch for you? The rules are that any entrant whose status as a knight is doubtful must have two known knights who will speak for him."

The patchwork knight's artificial voice boomed over the murmuring. "This condition I can satisfy. Ser Jamie Lannister of the kingsguard, will you speak for me?"

The atmosphere grew excitable as the youngest, newest white cloak made his way forward and took a look at the mockery of the knight who had asked for him. Instinctively, his eyes found Lyanna Stark standing close by with two of her brothers.

Since their chance meeting a few nights previous, Jamie had thought long and hard about who it was that Lyanna Stark wanted to help enter and why she needed his help. Now he knew why, but he was more confused to ever as to whom. He had decided that it must be her younger brother, but he was also nearby. Surely it couldn't be the middle brother—the quiet one who kept his head down and followed Lord Baratheon and Lord Arryn around like a lost sheep.

All eyes rested on Jamie for a moment. "Yes, I know this knight. It took a while to recognise him though his...armour." He paused a while to smirk. "But I'm familiar with the laughing tree sigil. It comes from a tale a boy I trained with at Casterly Rock told me once, and more importantly, I remember the day that boy was knighted."

The noise reached a crescendo and the clerk had to bang his hand on his desk to restore order. He whispered something in the ear of his young helper, and the boy ran off.

The clerk looked suspiciously at the smirking Ser Jamie Lannister, but his fear of his father stopped his tongue from calling him a liar. Instead, he scribbled something in his book and then put his quill down slowly.

"Is there a second man to speak for the...Knight of the Laughing Tree?"

There was a tense minute that only ended when Ser Brandon Stark stepped forward. "I know this hedge knight, though it seemed he has lost his armour since I last saw him. He helped my father during a spate of Ironborn raids on Deepwood Motte. I will speak for him."

The crowd was now whipped up into a frenzy of both shouting and laughter, and through it pushed Lord Whent himself. He held his hand up as his eyes took in the short knight in armour so ridiculous it might well have been motley.

"Who are you? And why do you mock my tourney?"

"I do not wish to mock your tourney, my lord," the mystery knight answered. "I only wish to compete."

Lord Whent's jowls shook. "And why do you think you are fit to compete when you can't even afford basic plate?"

The knight shifted awkwardly. "I didn't say I couldn't afford plate. I never came here with the intention to compete, but I was convinced to do so when a friend of mine was shamed by others. This was the best I could find at short notice to fight for my friend's honour."

Once the room settled, Lord Whent spoke again. "You fight for honour...and who, pray tell, are the knights you wish to challenge?"

The patchwork knight walked forward a step or two and put down a sheet of paper in front of the clerk. "I care not what order I come up against them. If the gods are with me then they will make sure I am victorious against all three."

After thinking for a moment, Lord Whent spoke over the roar of many voices. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree has two men to speak for him, and though I doubt he is a true knight worthy of competing in this tournament, I will allow him to enter. No doubt the champions he wishes to challenge will be glad of a weak opponent to ensure they pass through to the next day." He turned to the patchwork knight. "Just remember...if you shame yourself, you shame your friend also."

~X~

Most of the men in the room followed the unlikely knight and laughed as he clumsily tried to mount his horse. Lyanna, Ben, and Brandon were amongst them.

"I hope for his sake that wasn't your crannogman friend," Brandon said with a warning tone.

Lyanna answered with a pretence of shock. "You mean you had no idea who he was? Then why did you speak for him?"

Brandon scowled. "Don't try me. In return for the favour I did you, you can take a letter for me." He reached inside of his armour and pulled out a sealed parchment. "Lyanna, take this to Lady Ashara and put it in her hands, no one else's. Do you understand?"

Lyanna reached out for it and rolled her eyes, only for Brandon to snatch it away.

"And don't try to read it."

"Yes, yes. Now give it here so I can get back in time to find a good seat."

Once she had the letter in her hand and she and Ben were out of Brandon's sight, Lyanna carefully tried to look inside the folds without breaking the seal.

"You said you wouldn't peek," Ben stated, but Lyanna didn't answer. Instead she smiled when she caught a glimpse of two little words written in Brandon's bold hand.

_Marry Eddard._

Only then did she look at her youngest brother. "Shouldn't you be catching up with Howland? He'll need some help to remove his armour."

"Aren't you coming with us?" Ben asked.

"What do I look like—your squire?" Lyanna laughed. "At least one of us has to be seen to be around when the Knight of the Laughing tree is about, else they'll suspect. Besides, I have an errand to carry out. I'll see you at the tourney ground."

The two went their separate ways, Lyanna looking for Princess Elia and her ladies in waiting. When she finally found them, she curtsied, and then walked over to Ashara Dayne, whispering in her ear, "My brother sent you this."

The blonde girl smiled, said thank you, and tucked the letter into her sleeve.

Lifting her skirts as she ran, Lyanna hoped that she might be in time to take a seat next to Ned and her betrothed


	11. Chapter 11

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Eleven – The Knight of the Laughing Tree

Jamie sat down and Cersei turned away.

"Thank goodness. For a moment I thought you were going to stand and stare at Lyanna Stark all day."

Jamie smirked. "Are you jealous of my attentions, dear sister?" The hard look she gave briefly before turning her head away once more was his reply. "Maybe you've forgotten that I'm a sworn member of the kingsguard, and now any woman, Lyanna Stark, Lysa Tully...you, are to be put out of my mind and out of my bed."

Cersei's green eyes met his and her mouth twitched with the slightest of smiles. "Out of your bed? I don't recall that being part of your oath. You will take no wife or father no child." She thought on it for a while. "I heard nothing of beds."

They smiled at one another, both understanding that if beds had been mentioned then he would have broken his oath on the first night, but unable to say as their uncle was sitting too close.

After a short while, Cersei nodded to where Lyanna and Eddard Stark were sat with Lord Robert of Storm's End. "Do you think she's pretty?"

Slowly, Jamie took his sister's hand. "She's fair enough, I daresay, but she's not beautiful...like you."

When his sister's face beamed like the sun in response, he knew that he'd given the right answer.

"She's fair of face and figure, but what about her demeanour?" Cersei's brow furrowed. "We've both heard about her beating off a group of squires with her brother's tourney sword. She's strong, wilful, and brave enough to take on a man. Do well bred men find that attractive?"

"Some men might find that a little difficult to handle, and some might be drawn in by it—her betrothed, seems to be a good example of both." Jamie indicated Robert Baratheon, his neck and cheeks flushed as he spoke to the Stark girl. "For years I've heard about his promise as a great knight...and of his reputation for bedding as many women as possible, but she gelds him by her very presence. That's not a foundation for a good match in my eyes."

Cersei looked at them for a little while longer and instead of the scorn Jamie felt seeing Lord Robert behave that way, she found it endearing. Lyanna Stark was a strong female, not conforming to the traditional ideals that a woman should be seen and not heard, and it filled Cersei with a longing to do the same.

"But he adores her for strength, for her wildness."

"Maybe he does, but a woman shouldn't behave like she was raised by wolves. Lyanna Stark acts like a boy, and unless you are that way inclined that isn't an attractive feature." Jamie grinned. "Now if a woman could be strong and wise, yet still be a lady, that would be a fearsome thing indeed.

The twins smiled. Yes, Cersei agreed mentally. A fearsome thing indeed.

Her eyes sought out Princess Elia, looking pale and languid as she waited for her husband to take the field.

"_When will I wed the prince?" a child's voice whispered in her head._

"_Never. You will wed the king," the crone replied._

Remembering the Maggy the Frog's prophecy, Cersei looked at King Aerys. He was old and losing his wits, it was plain for everyone to see. She would never marry him—her father would never allow it even if Cersei herself had taken leave of her senses and wished it upon herself.

No, one day Rhaegar would ascend the throne, and maybe then his sickly wife would make way for Cersei to fulfil her destiny. The thought gave her comfort, and she tried her hardest to block out the rest of what Maggy had predicted.

~X~

Feeling nervous, Lyanna tried to look as nonchalant as possible. Somehow she felt watched and it made her feel uncomfortable—though not as uncomfortable as Robert felt, it seemed.

"I wonder, Lord Robert, why you don't joust?" she asked, trying to strike up conversation.

Robert's face went puce. "I—I'm not built for jousting. I much prefer the melee."

Their eyes met, and then Lyanna's dropped to his thick arms. Arms that could lift a war hammer that many others couldn't.

"Robert's fighting in the melee in a few days time," Ned added to break the silence that had grown, but then horns sounded and Lyanna stood and applauded with the others when Prince Rhaegar and Brandon took the field.

The white knight and the black knight, Lyanna thought as they rode before the king and bowed. Rhaegar was in his usual ornate black armour, decorated with flaming rubies and orange, red, and yellow streamers. Brandon rode a grey charger, his colours grey and white, and prominently displaying the Stark direwolf.

Ned turned sharply and looked at her. "Brandon challenged the prince?"

Lyanna confirmed it with a nod. "I tried to talk him out of it—I told him to think tactically when deciding who to challenge, but you know him as well as I do."

"Yes, once he has his mind set, there is no changing it." Ned seemed sad at the prospect of his older brother losing.

"Didn't you hear?" Robert finally found his more confident voice. "Fortune favours the bold. If a man never tries his hand, or his lance, at a stronger opponent, how will he ever know whether he can be beaten or not? My money is on your brother."

"And my money is on Prince Rhaegar," Lyanna said quickly. As guilty as she felt about betting against Brandon, she had another brother in the tourney who could benefit from little more coin to equip himself. It seemed to Lyanna that the outcome of this joust was a foregone conclusion. Brandon was good, and he would certainly be a tough opponent on the battlefield, but he didn't have the same level of horsemanship as the prince.

Jousting is mainly about how well you ride, she remembered, and I ride better than all of my brothers.

The white knight of the direwolf and the black dragon faced each other from opposite side of the rails, and Brandon was the first to move. The two clashed and the sound of lances breaking into splinters echoed.

Brandon flew off his horse with such force that Lyanna gasped and ran to the wooden fence keeping the spectators from the field. She wasn't the only one. A little further down both Catelyn Tully and Ashara Dayne had gotten from their seats in shock, their faces full of concern.

Lyanna watched Rhaegar remove his helm, jump down from his horse, and duck under the rail towards her fallen brother. Stiffly, Brandon took Rhaegar's offered hand and inched himself to his feet.

The applause that hadn't come when Ser Brandon Stark had been unhorsed finally arrived, along with a loud cheer that the vanquished knight hadn't been as badly hurt as many had first thought.

Brandon removed his own helm and both prince and northman bowed to the king. Looking at her brother, he winked when he saw her and the ball of tension in Lyanna's stomach released.

But then a second pair of eyes found her and Lyanna froze. For a moment the world stopped and Lyanna forgot to breathe.

When Prince Rhaegar turned away it took a short while for Lyanna to recover her senses, and then she berated herself sharply for behaving like such a silly young girl. He's just a man, she told herself. He had looked in her direction very briefly—of course he would, she was the sister of the man he'd just knocked off his horse. She shouldn't feel so struck by it.

Remembering that she hadn't been the only concerned woman, she looked to see if Catelyn Tully and Ashara Dayne were still by the fence, and she found that they were.

Catelyn Tully's face was pale but relieved, as she clutched at her décolletage and tried to calm herself. Lyanna's regard for her grew. Her future sister-in-law loved her brother, that was plain.

Ashara Dayne...Lyanna took a moment to assess the other girl's expressions. Her lilac eyes were watery, but there was a flush in her cheeks as she watched Brandon leaving the field.

Steely grey met watery lilac and narrowed. That was not the reaction of a woman who thought of a man as a brother-in-law.

~X~

Prince Rhaegar left Ser Brandon Stark in the capable hands of his squire, and paused by the tourney field for a while. He wanted to watch the other challengers, he told himself, to see who he might come up against tomorrow, but he knew it was a lie.

He'd taken the field today against Ser Brandon Stark with the dream of the ice knight on the direwolf piercing the chest of the dragon in mind, and that was why he had given the contest his all.

Ser Brandon Stark had looked the part, riding his grey charger, his colours that of snow and stone, and the direwolf sigil on almost any surface that could bear it, but he wasn't the ice knight, that much was now plain to see.

The future Lord Stark had been outmatched, and in his desperation to avoid his own predicted death, Rhaegar had almost killed the northman.

As soon as he'd found that Ser Brandon was aching but well, Rhaegar had immediately began thinking about who else might be the ice knight. He'd found Eddard Stark's long face amongst the crowd, green with concern over his brother.

Then he'd seen the sister. She'd been clutching the wooden fence tightly, looking stressed and panting heavily. Something had happened between them. Looking in the Stark girl's eyes, something had clicked into place, only he wasn't sure what. It almost felt like a touch of destiny.

Could the Stark girl be the ice knight? The figure riding the direwolf had been slight, not large like her oldest brother.

No, how could Lyanna Stark be a knight, unless the dream was symbolic. _Though_...the prince vaguely recalled hearing someone talking about a daughter of a northern lord who had scattered a number of squires with only a practice sword, and Rhaegar himself had seen her pour her cup over her youngest brother's head before storming out of the hall not last night but the night previous.

Where was the youngest brother? Rhaegar couldn't remember seeing him, but then he'd not seen Lord Stark either. The moments after the joust had been confusing.

And his eyes had been lost the second he found the Stark girl...

Rhaegar was snapped out of the moment as a roar of laughter came from the crowd. Passing through the bystanders, he caught sight of Ser Leslyn Haigh, identified by the black pitchfork on gold and russet colours. He knew Ser Leslyn was a poor jouster, but the laughter did not seem to be at his expense.

Pushing closer to the fence, people stepping aside and apologising as they saw who it was that wanted to be through, Rhaegar finally saw Ser Leslyn's opponent.

The unfamiliar knight was short, riding a chestnut mare, and held a blue shield displaying a weirwood tree with a pronounced smile and red eyes—it was not a sigil he was familiar with and Rhaegar usually prided himself on knowing all the houses, large or small, poor or rich, that existed in his future kingdom.

But the thing that was most remarkable about the mystery knight, and what was causing the jeers and jibes, was the fact that he was wearing a set of armour so poorly matched that it looked like he'd purposefully went out to create such an image. Either that or this boy—because he surely couldn't be a man—had had to settle for the items thrown away or sold cheaply.

This must be a jester. This knight is really a fool organised by my father to shame Ser Leslyn for some perceived slight.

Still, he watched with interest as Ser Leslyn dug his heels into his horses and the two knights hurtled at one another across the field. Both lances glanced of the other's shield, and for a moment Rhaegar thought they would have to charge again.

Ser Leslyn Haigh slowly lost his seat and slid to the floor, landing undignified on his rump with a clang. The roars and laughter erupted anew.

The mystery knight turned his horse around and cantered to where the pitchfork knight was seated.

"At least he'll have some decent armour now," someone heckled.

"It'll be too big for him!" another voice replied.

Ser Leslyn said something to the other jouster out of earshot. The mounted knight still wearing his helm replied, "I do not wish to take your horse or your plate in return for my victory." The heckling reached a fever pitch, but the loud booming voice of the mystery knight prevailed. "Instead, teach your squire honour. That shall be ransom enough."

Prince Rhaegar startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but then smiled when he saw it was Arthur.

"Well, I never. When I first saw him I took him for a fool in plate. Now it seems that the Knight of the Laughing Tree is actually a capable jouster despite how he looks."

With the slightest of chuckles, Rhaegar patted his closest friend on the back. Tomorrow he'd face Ser Arthur Dayne as he'd intended today, before he'd been given the chance to test Ser Brandon Stark instead.

"You know of this knight? Come, Arthur. Tell me about it."

Walking back to his quarters, Rhaegar listened intently, his mind now empty of thoughts of the dark-haired girl dressed in blue, looking back at him with grey eyes filled with a touch of fate.


	12. Chapter 12

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twelve – The Fairer Sex

As soon as Lyanna excused herself, Robb became his usual self.

"Did you see the look on his face?" Robb guffawed. "You could have slapped him around the face with a fish and he wouldn't have looked any more stunned. Probably thought he had an easy win. Do you know who the mystery knight is?"

Ned shook his head, although he was worrying about how truthful Lyanna had been when she'd said that Benjen and their new friend, Howland Reed, had been watching the archers. Ben was enthusiastic about jousting, this Ned knew, but keenness didn't guarantee a capable knight.

He would watch the three of them at dinner tonight. If Ben had been jousting and won, no doubt it would be written all over his face.

Then Ned froze as he saw Princess Elia leaving the stands, almost hidden in the crowd of her entourage. Catching sight of a flash of white blonde hair, he rushed forward, trying to keep up.

As Ned managed to get ahead, he pushed his way through the other onlookers, finally rewarded when her eyes met his. Ashara Dayne.

She smiled. Not just a polite smile, but a genuine stretching of her mouth to show that she recognised him and it pleased her.

As if by magic, Ned turned to stone, allowing everyone to pass him by while he was lost in the beautiful picture in his mind. She was sheer feminine perfection, never before in his life had he seen anyone, anything, so pure and delightful.

And she had danced with him—all night—at the feast before the tourney truly got underway.

He was in love.

Brought back to his senses by a sudden jolt, he struggled to keep his balance. Robert stood by him, shaking his head.

"What a pair we are. Look at us—lovesick fools."

Ned laughed nervously, and then looked at the ground as he fell into step beside his friend. At least Robb knew he was going to marry the woman he loved. A woman like Ashara, well she was too good for the likes of Eddard Stark, second son of Lord Stark of Winterfell. What chance did he have?

_But__ she __danced__ with__ you_, part of his brain pleaded, and if he'd had coherent thought before he'd seen her, he'd forgotten what it was.

~X~

When Lyanna finally managed to get away, she found Ben changed into his regular clothes, passing up sacks containing his ragtag armour and equipment to Howland in the tree above.

They saw her, and Ben ran over to hug her tightly.

"Did you see? Did you see me win?" Ben was about to burst with excitement so Lyanna smiled as she replied.

"Well, you didn't so much knock him off as he fell off. Tomorrow will be harder. Both Frey and Blount are better in the saddle than Ser Leslyn." Howland jumping down from the tree caught her attention. "Nice disguise, Squire. I'd never have recognised you covered in that dirt."

Ben grinned. "That was my idea. I thought that if he wore a hood pulled down over his face and something that we'd rubbed in dung, no one would want to come close enough to figure out who he was. Worked a treat—everyone gave him a very wide berth."

As Howland drew near, Lyanna could still smell the evidence on him. "Make sure you have a bath before you go to the hall tonight." She turned to her brother. "_You_ need an early night. No wine with your food, and I want you to go over everything you've ever learned about jousting before tomorrow."

Ben rolled his eyes.

"And I'm going to wear the armour when we make our challenge in the morning, so you can be seen in the same place as the mystery knight again. I think people suspect."

"Yes..." Ben said with a sigh at his sister's bossiness.

"This is serious, Ben. Make sure you don't sit there with that grin on your face all night either, you look like you just won a joust."

Ben grinned in reply, and then tried his best to hide it.

~X~

Prince Rhaegar sat in the seat at the top of the room and looked amongst the crowds on the long tables before him, making a mental list of anyone who was of the correct build to be the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Though, it had to be said, that there was no guarantee that they would be here tonight—the quality of the armour would certainly be consistent with the mystery knight being a squire or someone lowborn who could not otherwise enter the lists.

Analysing the unknown jouster's technique, it was clear that their training was not yet complete, and their slightness of form seemed to suggest someone young.

But how would a squire or someone of the likes manage to get Ser Jamie Lannister, newly appointed to the kingsguard to speak for him? And Ser Brandon Stark?

Rhaegar's eyes found the Starks sitting at a table at the far left of the room. His jousting opponent was notably missing; after discovering the extent of his wounds, the prince had sent his own personal maester to treat him.

Around their table sat Lord Arryn and Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, and Brandon's younger siblings.

A quick look at Eddard Stark told him that he was too grown to be the mystery knight, plus he had seen him in the stands immediately before the Knight of the Laughing Tree had arrived. Next to him sat the youngest Stark—Benjen. His form definitely made him a candidate for the mystery knight, and Arthur had informed him that Ser Leslyn Haigh's squire had been part of the group that had insulted the crannogman that now followed the Starks everywhere.

No one could remember seeing Benjen Stark during the jousting that day. Nor the crannogman friend, who was of a similar build.

Maybe it wasn't Brandon Stark that was the knight in his vision, but a younger brother in disguise? There was a chance that the mystery knight might make it through tomorrow and challenge him later in the lists.

_On __the__ third__ charge_, Rhaegar remembered from his dream, _the__ wolf-mounted __knight__ pierces__ the__ dragon__'__s__ chest__ with__ his __icicle__ lance_.

He was brought out of his trance by his wife whispering in his ear. "Will you stay with me tonight? I get so lonely when you stay up and read."

When he looked down in to her eyes, he saw the sadness and felt pangs of his own need for her closeness, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. How long had it been since he'd stayed with her all night?

Too long. Lately he'd avoided showing too much affection in the bedroom, torn between his own physical needs and the knowledge that another conception against all the diagnoses from the maesters would kill her. Could he really sacrifice his own wife for a third child? Break his heart and leave Aegon and Rhaenys without a loving mother just to fulfil a prophecy?

No, he couldn't.

"I will stay with you," he whispered back before kissing her forehead. The look on Elia's face told him that she understood what that did and did not entail. If she was disappointed she hid it well.

Looking to his left, he saw that his father was still resolved to spend the night silent, sulking, and paying no attention to anyone but the servers. It was better that way—it meant that father and son did not have to try and find some common ground to converse on, an increasingly difficult task.

That was when he saw a dark-haired girl enter the hall, knowing before he truly saw who she was.

Lyanna Stark, walking alongside the crannogman.

Part of him quickly assessed her build to see if she would fit the patchwork suit of armour belonging to the mystery knight. Another part hoped to be struck like lightning like he had on the tourney field, but before that could happen, he turned back to his wife, losing himself in her smiles before he could be claimed by the eyes of another.

~X~

Lying in his bed, Brandon Stark closed his eyelids tightly shut. For all Prince Rhaegar's maester had managed to send the pain of his injuries far away, Brandon felt more than drunk as the candle became not one but two, three, four candles.

He didn't like the feeling of being so out of control. Even when drunk, he never lost power over his own body—you never knew when your fists or your sword might be needed. With the room rolling the way it was he was as helpless as a kitten.

When the door creaked and opened, he opened his eyes quickly to see who it was. If it was the maester, he'd say no, no more, and send him away, but then a dark hood was pulled back to show three heads with flowing white hair.

Trying to sit up but floundering, the first thought that came to Brandon's mind was that this was a three headed Targaryen come to finish off what the prince had started, but as the figure grew closer, the heads briefly drifted into just one face, before unfocusing again.

"Ashara," he croaked.

"The answer to your question is yes, I will marry your brother...especially if that means we will spend lots of time at Winterfell." Three sets of pink lips smiled back at him, and then she dropped to her knees beside his bed.

"My brave warrior." Her warm hands rubbed over his brow, which was slick with sweat. "I came to comfort you..."

As hands ran down his chest and attempted to find their way under the blankets. He managed to grab an arm, and it stopped all of the wandering limbs at once.

"No."

Ashara giggled and then took his hand in hers, kissing his fingers before bringing his palm to her breast. Brandon recoiled as if he'd been stung.

"No. No more. For Ned." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Brandon knew that he should be more careful with his words, but it took everything he had just to speak at all.

"You say that, but you don't mean it." Ashara leaned forward to kiss his lips but Brandon turned away.

When he turned back, the girl looked upset. "You want me to go?" But when Brandon nodded, she didn't accept that as his true answer. "You don't know what you're saying. Too much milk of the poppy."

Her hand ran through his hair, and this time Brandon shouted, "_No.__ Never__ again_." He was about to add, "For my brother," when he realised that for all Ashara Dayne was undoubtedly beautiful, she would be the worst possible wife for Ned. Ned was full of honour and always did the right thing, and here was Ashara, trying to find her way into the wrong bed.

Ashara would break Ned's heart, and shame him. He deserved much better than that.

"No. Changed my mind. No more wedding."

Ashara got to her feet, her face a picture of horror. "What? What do you mean you've changed your mind. Surely you can't mean...after I lay with you?"

Brandon was about to argue back that it had been Ashara doing the seducing, and climbing into bed had been a condition before the girl would even listen to his proposal that she marry his younger brother, but he didn't have the energy.

"Just go. Go. Don't come back."

Ashara's face became much less attractive as her three heads contorted into masks of anger and fury. She paused long enough to slap Brandon across the face, but it might as well have been a caress for all Brandon was able to feel.

At that thought, Brandon couldn't help but laugh, and with a disgusted noise Ashara left, the motion of the closing door sending a pleasant breeze across Brandon's face before he finally passed out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Thirteen – The Knight of the Laughing Tree Rides Again

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jamie Lannister stood by Prince Rhaegar's side as he waited for the Knight of the Laughing Tree to arrive. Considering that two days of jousting had already passed, and most contenders would have been vanquished on their first or second joust, the room was cramped and crowded.

Everyone was curious about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and who could blame them? It was that same reason that the prince was here himself, when he would usually send someone to represent him instead.

Today he would joust against his friend, Arthur, as he had intended yesterday. It seemed that yesterday's challenger, Ser Brandon, was still incapacitated, though strong enough to dismiss the maester the prince had sent.

Rhaegar turned and looked at young Ser Jamie, in his shining new armour and pristine white cloak. This morning, before his father had awoke, Rhaegar had requested that the Lannister boy accompany him. He wanted to watch his reaction when the mystery knight arrived.

As he looked, he pitied Ser Jamie. The king had him by his side at all times, and yesterday he had treated the youngest knight of the kingsguard as little more than a cupbearer. Rhaegar wondered how long it would be before the humiliations got worse; Ser Jamie was still but a boy, and had done no wrong other than being the oldest son of a very capable Hand.

Scanning the room, Rhaegar found many on his list of possible candidates for wearing the patchwork armour. He was surprised to see Benjen Stark stood with his older brother, Eddard, and Lord Robert Baratheon. They were obviously here to satisfy their curiosity as none of them were competing.

Part of Rhaegar was a little relieved-little Benjen was the closest fit he'd found for his dream of the ice knight on the dire wolf. Maybe it had just been a dream after all, though it had reoccurred every night since. Still, it was nice to think that Rhaegar wasn't about to have his chest skewered on a Stark's lance.

And then the murmurings of the crowd grew louder, a path appearing through the centre as the knight everyone was waiting for made his way to the clerk keeping the lists.

Most definitely a boy, Rhaegar thought, and saw Ser Jamie's brow wrinkle once the Knight of the Laughing Tree clanked past. Now what could be the meaning of that?

The knight reached the table, and projecting and deepening his voice so much it was obvious, he shouted, "Good morning."

The room's amusement at this simple greeting was apparent. The way the knight looked around and waited for the laughter to stop seemed to suggest the mystery knight was also amused.

Rhaegar could have sworn that the small slit in the visor hesitated in his direction, the eyes only partially visible behind, but then the prince realised that he was stood with Ser Jamie. The two were familiar with one another, and Ser Jamie was smirking, even if his face held a slightly bemused expression.

"I am here to make my challenge. You still have my list I assume? I understand both knights won their rounds yesterday."

"You are correct," the clerk confirmed. "Though it seems that _you_won more through an incompetent opponent rather than through proving you had any skill."

All eyes in the room sought out Ser Leslyn Haigh. He was stood at the back, his face bright red and his accompanying squire looking sufficiently shamed.

"That is true, but you need only be slightly better to defeat a knight with a poor seat when the gods are on your side," the Knight of the Laughing Tree explained. "Rest when you can rest. Walk when you must walk. Run only when you must run."

The knight paused a while for the cheers and jeers to fade.

"I assure you that I will rise to meet and surpass the competition. Should I defeat them both and become one of the final champions, then I will joust as if I was the Dragon Knight himself born again!"

Even Prince Rhaegar had to smile at the young knight's bravado. The clerk seemed less amused.

"Then who do you wish to challenge today, good Ser," the clerk asked. "Ser Bryen Blount or Ser Aenys Frey?"

Both knights were stood with their squires. Ser Bryen sneered and whispered something to his younger but equally wide and coarse-looking brother, Boros, also a knight. Ser Aenys' watery eyes circled with red expressed no emotion.

After the Knight of the Laughing Tree had finished weighing them up, he yelled, "Today I wish to challenge Ser Bryen of House Blount, and I hope that Ser Aenys will save his third and final joust for me tomorrow?"

"You won't make it to tomorrow," Ser Boros Blount heckled and many others laughed with him, including his brother.

Ser Aenys only nodded and said nothing, instead giving his squire—obviously another Frey judging by his look—a pointed stare.

The clerk lowered his head and wrote in his book.

"Then it is settled." The Knight of the Laughing Tree rested his hand of the hilt of his sword casually. "My lords and good sers, my prince, I beg your leave. You see, I must go polish my armour."

The room roared with laughter as the mystery knight nodded in Prince Rhaegar's direction then made his exit.

Arthur leaned over and whispered in Rhaegar's ear, "The Knight of the Laughing Tree seems to have gotten infinitely cockier since he first entered. It's amazing how much confidence a boy can gain from one stroke of good luck."

Prince Rhaegar nodded. If the young knight wasn't careful he could be seriously hurt. Ser Bryen was a powerfully built man.

~X~

Once he had shown to Ned, Robert, and everyone else who might have looked his way that he was highly entertained by the spectacle, Ben ran to the godswood as fast as he could.

When he got there he found Howland still in the process of helping Lyanna out of her armour.

"Good work," he said and then joined in unfastening the rusty breastplate. The sooner she was out of the armour, the quicker he could put it on. He understood the reasons behind Lyanna wanted to play the part this morning, but to see how comfortable she was taking on his secret identity had made him more than a little jealous.

Still, it would be him that wore the disguise for the best part of the whole adventure. After yesterday's win Ben had felt ten feet tall—until Lyanna had dragged him back down to earth. Though he had to be thankful for her help, without which he wouldn't have gotten this far.

Once he and Howland had both managed to lace up the back of Lyanna's gown—a task trickier than it first seemed—and then his sister and his friend helped him become the Knight of the Laughing Tree, he felt much less jealous of Lyanna's performance.

Howland donned his brown, dung-smelling coat, and Ben was beamed wide beneath his visor. Lyanna decided that she would stay in the godswood that day, and as Ben was jousting early, both she and Howland could help him change sooner, so all three could be seen at the tourney field together.

Taking the long way out of the godswood, Ben allowed Howland to ride with him until they came across the sea of tents and people. This time there were more cheers and less rude comments, and that made Ben's chest swell with pride.

Arriving at the tourney field as a defeated knight passed by in a foul mood, Ben paused a while to make sure Ser Bryen made his entrance first.

Once the noise had died down, Benjen allowed his horse to canter onto the field, and did a quick lap with his hand held high in greeting, before both he and Ser Bryen paused in front of the king.

Waving them away, for a moment Ben thought that King Aerys glared in his direction, before turning and saying something quietly to his kingsguard knight, Ser Jamie Lannister. Panicking for a second, he wondered if the boy in white would implicate his sister, but then the king's bored expression returned and both competitors took their positions.

Howland handed Ben his lance and tapped him on the knee. "Good luck," he whispered.

_The__ gods__ are__ on__ my __side...how__ much__ more__ luck__ do__ I__ need?_ thought Ben, but then stared at huge Ser Bryen as he pulled down his visor. His shield was two black porcupines on green and red, and his dark armour was decorated to suit—he made an imposing figure.

Wanting to take the initiative, Ben drove his horse forward, a hundred things to remember about jousting running through his mind. Gripping his horse and trying to keep himself as firmly seated as possible, he lowered his lance and struck the uppermost Blount porcupine on his opponent's shield. While his lance cracked and broke apart, he felt a blow unlike any he'd ever known to his left shoulder.

As Ser Bryen's lance cracked, the air flew out of Ben's lungs and for a second the world spun. By some miracle he managed stay in the saddle, and with a groan he took a deep breath. Noise echoed in his ears, sounding so muffled and distant that he wasn't sure it was real.

Then a second lance was thrust into Ben's hand, and remembering where he was and what he was doing, he steadied his now nervous horse and charged forward again.

Too dizzy to think too hard, he lowered his lance. This time Ser Bryen hit the painted weirwood tree. Ben's own strike at first hit the green and red shield again, but started to slide across its surface towards Ser Bryen's torso.

Ser Bryen shifted his body and shield to avoid the blow as splinters flew into the air. In slow motion, as the horses got closer on opposite sides of the fence, Ben watched the dark knight twist in his saddle and begin to lean backwards. Then he passed beyond Ben's narrow field of vision.

Reining up his horse as best as he could, he then turned them around, mentally chanting, "Please fall, please fall."

A wash of pain and relief flowed over him as he saw a riderless horse on the other side of the field, and then a dark heap in the dust.

Howland ran up. "Ser! Ser, are you all right?"

Panting and grimacing, Ben managed to squeeze out, "Yes," and then after a few more pants he asked his acting squire to lead him to where Ser Bryen was slowly getting to his feet.

This time he didn't wait for his vanquished opponent to speak.

"Keep your horse and your armour." Ben forced himself to raise his voice, realising that those in the stands would hear him struggling. "The only ransom required is that you teach your squire honour."

Bowing in the direction of the fallen knight and the king, Ben then quickly left the field, feeling more and more nauseous by the minute. Howland jumped up behind him and helped bring him back to the godswood where Lyanna was waiting.

Almost falling out from the horse, Lyanna and Howland caught Ben before he hit the ground, and then tentatively began removing his armour.

"There's no blood," Howland commented.

Lyanna undid the straps under Ben's armpit which sent shooting pains throughout his body, causing him to lean to the side and finally empty the contents of his stomach into the grass.

As she ran her fingers through his hair, Lyanna asked Howland if he thought it might be broken.

Once out of the armour, Howland winced as he looked at Ben's hunched up shoulder. "It's dislocated. Wait a moment—I know how to fix this."

Lyanna carefully held onto Ben as Howland ran off and then came back with a short, smooth stick. Both Starks looked at him in puzzlement until he placed it in Ben's mouth.

"Hold him tight, Lyanna," Howland instructed, before putting a hand on his shoulder and holding Ben's wrist with the other. "One, two, three..."

As Howland gave a swift, sharp yank, there was a loud crunching sound, and the yelp that Ben gave almost broke Lyanna's heart.

Tears ran down Ben's face but after a few more deep breaths, he began to look a little less ill than he had. Helping him to his unsteady feet, his sister looped her arm around his on his good side.

"Can you walk? We need to get you back to the castle before the jousting is over, and anyone sees you like this."

Ben nodded.

"I can put all of this away," Howland said. "I think the Knight of the Laughing Tree's tournament is over." A sad smile grew on the crannogman's face. "Thank you, Ben. If it wasn't for you, those squires would have gotten away with what they did. I just wish you hadn't gotten hurt in the process."

"Still one more..." Ben croaked.

"Oh, no you don't," Lyanna scolded as she began to lead him across the grass to the entrance of the godswood. "You're in no condition to be lifting a lance."

Ben couldn't muster up the energy to disagree.

~X~

Prince Rhaegar rode with his entourage, side by side with his opponent, laughing and joking. It was only by chance that, as he happened to pass by the entrance to the godswood, that he saw two figures exiting. No doubt he was the only one who cared to notice as others lost themselves in pageantry and the excitement of two friends who would be jousting against each other for the honour of being one of the champions on the final day.

A girl and a boy who almost looked like dark-haired twins from a distance walked arm-in-arm, and briefly, the girl's eyes met his. Rhaegar's chest felt constricted, and feeling uncomfortable with this development he shifted his gaze to the boy, who was holding himself very stiffly.

Recognising them as Lyanna and Benjen Stark, Lyanna ever so slightly the taller of the two, Rhaegar wondered what it was that had happened for the boy to walk so.

It was later, after winning a very evenly matched contest with Arthur, that Rhaegar was told about how the Knight of the Laughing Tree fared in his match.

Realisation hit him like a tidal wave as he put together Benjen Stark's injury, their exiting of the godswood, which would of course have a white weirwood at its heart, and how the boy had could have been present at the same time as the mystery knight entered the lists.

As Rhaegar had beaten three challengers and would not need to joust again tomorrow, he decided that he would lie in wait in the godswood, to see if his suspicions were correct. After all, if the Starks were defending the crannogman's honour, there was still one knight to be challenged...


	14. Chapter 14

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Fourteen – Identities

Instead of the lust for life and sense of possibility Ben usually felt when he woke up, that day he woke up groggy and dry mouthed, with an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

He shouldn't feel that way, he thought as he tested his still sore shoulder. There would be no jousting for him today, but then it was only by extreme good luck and hard work and planning that he'd managed to have even that. Besides, he'd jousted twice and won twice, against men more than twice, probably more than three times his age. Wasn't that something to be pleased about?

_Yes,__ but__ it__ should__ have__ been __three __jousts__ and__ three__ wins_, he reminded himself and then thought about his dream.

He'd dreamed that Lyanna had taken a turn to joust, and that she'd gone on to be the champion of the entire tournament, beating both Prince Rhaegar and one of the kingsguard. Already jealous of his sister's prowess with a lance, Ben felt even more insulted when she crowned him the queen of love and beauty. When he looked down he saw he was wearing Lyanna's gown, and everyone was pointing and laughing, including his sister—who had taken Prince Rhaegar's armour and mount as ransom, and looked every part the great warrior, her helm removed and hair blowing in the wind.

_It__ was__ just__ a__ dream.__ It__ wasn__'__t__ real.__ I__ know __what__ I__ need__ to__ do_. Taking a deep breath Ben steeled himself to get out of bed and quickly pull on some clothes.

Quietly opening his door, he ran to where Lyanna was sleeping and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Ben. I need to talk to you."

There was a rustle, and then she called him in. When Ben walked through the door Lyanna was in bed with her covers up to her neck.

He sat on a stone ledge near the window, his face as sombre as his mood.

"Lyanna...about the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I can't joust today. I just wanted to say that—if you wanted to—I would be okay if you wanted to...joust today. I know you want to."

Lyanna's eyes grew wide. "You mean you wouldn't mind?"

Shaking his head, Ben added, "I've taken two turns. There'll be other times." His eyes met his sister's. "There might not be another chance for you."

A moment of mutual understanding passed between the two siblings. He was going to miss having Lyanna around once she was married, and he knew that she didn't want to leave Winterfell and her family. She was his favourite brother, sister, best friend, and partner in crime rolled into one. This was his way of showing that he appreciated her for just being there.

Lyanna smiled and threw back the covers. Ben gasped in shock.

"They're mine!"

His sister was wearing breaches and one of Bran's shirts, and he only now noticed a pair of black boots almost hidden under the bed.

"Howland gave them to me. He's wearing his own clothes today under his squire cloak." Jumping up from her straw mattress, Lyanna picked up a blue fabric bundle. "I'm going to get ready. Will you cover for me at breakfast?"

Unable to hide his incredulous smile, Ben replied, "Yes. What should I say?"

"Just tell them that I was moody, snapped at you, and then stormed off. If you're lucky they'll think it's women's troubles and not ask for any more detail."

Nodding, he watched Lyanna pull on his old boots.

"See you when you enter the lists...and good luck."

His sister smiled and breezed out of the door.

~X~

The king sat in his seat in the centre of the stands in a particularly conflicted mood.

He'd had a dream last night and it had been beautiful at first. He'd been one of Aegon the Conqueror's dragons—Balerion, the black dread no less—and he'd perched on the walls of a newly built Harrenhal. Breathing his flame, blackening the stone, and feeling the raw destructive power, he'd felt truly alive. It had almost felt real.

But when he'd leaped into the air and landed in the godswood, a white tree with red leaves laughed at him.

"Beware the boy. He will be your undoing. History will remember him as the kingslayer," the tree warned as it beamed and roared.

As Balerion, the king had tried to burn the tree down but it remained untouched, still laughing. The rest of the trees and the grass were aflame, but through the mesmerizing orange, yellow, and black, he caught sight of two knights charging at one another in the distance. The first was all in black, and the king recognised his own son, Rhaegar. Against him there was a slender knight on a white horse, all armoured in white, and bearing a white shield.

The white lance caught his son in the chest, and King Aerys awoke in his bed, crying out, "No."

His first matter of the day had to be to call for Jamie Lannister, the newest white knight of the kingsguard, to inform him of why he had been given the honour, and then promptly send the boy to Kings Landing.

It was only as he was sat eating his smoked fish and boiled eggs that the king remembered that the white knight in his dream hadn't held the pure white shield of the kingsguard, but that there had been a sigil in its centre, but what, he did not remember.

Still, it was no loss that he had sent his new toy away. It would give Ser Jamie time to find a quill and tell his father what he'd done. The briefest of smiles crossed the king's face as he imagined Tywin Lannister's expression as he realised that he now had only a dwarf and a daughter to inherit his impressive lands and wealth.

His mood hadn't brightened for long. Once he'd thought on the white shield more, he'd began to wonder who might be the secret conspirator who was planning to kill both the king and the crown prince.

Sitting in the stand nearby was the answer. Starks. The grey direwolf on white.

Lord Rickard was getting old and his jousting days were over, but he had always seemed to self-righteous, too moral for King Aerys' liking. The Warden of the North held what had been the largest kingdom before all of Westeros had been unified by King Aerys' Targaryen ancestors.

Assessing the company the northern lord kept, he noticed that he was sat with two of his sons—the oldest, his heir, Brandon Stark. He'd challenged his son days ago and been suitably chastised for his arrogance in thinking he could challenge a royal competitor.

Also sat with them was a young boy whose name he did not remember. Could he be the boy the laughing tree had warned him about? Lord Stark had another son—Edd, or something similar—who he had fostered with Lord Arryn, along with the young Lord of Storm's End. Try as he might, the king couldn't find the lord of the Vale and his wards.

Are they plotting against me? Are they seeking to remove me from the throne and kill my heir? Or is Rhaegar with them, wanting to replace me before it his rightful turn?

If the north, the Vale, Storm's End, and his own son were against him then it would be wise to watch them all closely, ready to proclaim treason the second he had evidence.

Shifting in annoyance and impatience, the king barked at Ser Arthur Dayne to bring him some wine, and none of that filth from yesterday.

Luckily, there were few challengers and champions left to eliminate before the final day of jousting tomorrow. The king hated jousting. Maybe, he mused, he might ask for some wildfire to be brought after the final and burn the tourney field to the ground. Then he realised that it would take too long for someone to go to King's Landing and back, especially transporting such an unstable substance. The tourney would be long finished by the time the volatile, flammable liquid arrived.

For a brief moment the king imagined everything burning around him: the stands, the people, the rail in the centre of the field in front of him, and even the vast castle of Harrenhal itself. It was a wondrous sight, but then his daydream faded as the crowds cheered despite the flames.

Two knights entered the field and paused to bow before him. The first knight was one of the Freys, which one the king did not care, as it was the second knight was the one that caused alarm. He looked at the mystery knight in his patchwork armour, and remembered how he'd wondered if Lord Whent had been meant to insult him by allowing such a mockery to enter.

"Ser Aenys Frey, and the Knight of the Laughing Tree."

The white tree on the ridiculous knight's shield caught his attention, with its red leaves and crudely painted and exaggerated red smile. It took everything the king had to prevent himself from getting to his feet and ordering an execution there and then.

_No, not here. Not now. Listen to how they cheer for this fool. I must be clever. I must be patient and find the right moment._

The king watched intently as the jousters took their position. Even across the field the painted laughing tree mocked him.

Then the two clashed, and two lances broke on shields, and now the laughing tree was hidden from view. King Aerys knew it was still laughing though it was out of sight, and he felt burning rage bubbling up within him.

The second charge also resulted in broken lances, but on the third charge, the Knight of the Laughing Tree landed a clean hit and Ser Aenys was flung from his saddle.

The crowd was almost deafening, and many got to their feet to applaud. The tree mocked him as the knight insulted the defeated Frey by refusing to take ransom, and then bowed and left the field.

Now the Laughing Tree is a champion—tomorrow he will face my son and that must not happen at any cost. Taking a deep gulp of his wine, the king dreamed up many suitable punishments for the mystery knight's insolence, and was lost to the world around him for a number of hours after.

~X~

Lying in wait, disguised in pauper's rags, Prince Rhaegar had been hidden in the godswood since dawn, searching for the mystery knight yet trying to remain unseen. Until now he'd not appreciated just how vast the wood was, and was starting to despair of finding any sign until he'd come across a fresh pile of horse dung and trampled earth beneath a tree.

Realising that he'd missed his opportunity to see them arrive, Rhaegar found a outcropping of rock not far away and chose to await the mystery knight's return. Arthur was watching the tournament under instruction, ready to report on any developments.

There had been a good chance that the Knight of the Laughing Tree wouldn't make an appearance today if he truly was Benjen Stark. The boy had taken an injury, and had been absent from the evening meal the night before, as had his sister and friend.

But if he did show, then Rhaegar would find out for certain if the boy was the direwolf knight. It had to be true—everything seemed to fit. If this person was the one to cause his death, then he wanted to know and why before it came about.

Rhaegar crouched lower, looking beyond a crevice in the stone with one eye when he finally heard approaching hooves.

He had been right to hide here, he thought, as the Knight of the Laughing Tree came into sight, his squire clinging on behind him. Reining up his horse, both boys jumped off and hugged tightly.

"I can consider myself fully avenged." The squire pulled off a soiled cloak and underneath he was wearing the outfit of a crannogman.

Before Rhaegar could think, _I__'__m__ right_, the Knight of the Laughing Tree removed his helm.

"I'm glad we could be of assistance." The two embraced again, and then the knight reached up behind his head and unloosened a knot. Cascading dark hair was set free, and Rhaegar felt stung to his very core when he turned around.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was not Benjen Stark, but his sister—she of the captivating eyes that Rhaegar felt so drawn to. How could that be? He had seen her in the stands the first time he'd seen the mystery knight joust. Unless she and her brother were taking turns to play the part, he decided before he drove himself mad.

The crannogman was helping her unfasten her armour, and underneath Rhaegar saw that she was dressed in the outfit her companion had been wearing on previous days. Once all the armour was removed and packed away in brown sacks, which were then hauled up into the trees, Lyanna Stark commanded the boy to turn the other way.

Rhaegar knew he should do the same thing—it was the only right, respectable thing to do, but slave to his own excitement, he shamed himself by watching as the young girl removed her boots, shirt and breeches before climbing into her gown.

He wanted to look away—he wanted to run away, but he found himself paralysed, barely able to move a muscle, spying on her naked form. Her slim waist, her slender but toned thighs, and the way her dark hair tumbled around her firm breasts...

He had found his direwolf knight, the jousting ice maiden of the north, fair of face, and a fearsome warrior in the making. Her piercing stare had caught his attention previously, only now Rhaegar knew just how devastating the effect had been.

So now he knew the meaning of the dream—he had found the ice knight, and his unexpected discovery had torn a hole in the centre of his being, but what of the rest? He had breathed flame and burned his dream opponent, and both had perished before the snows arrived, with a blue rose growing from their tangled bones.

Whatever it was, he felt that same touch of fate. This could be as important as the red star and the smoke and salt, possibly even the number three.

In a daze, Rhaegar sat there long after the two conspirators had dressed in their normal attire and secured their other belongings, his mind spinning. It was getting dark before he left the godswood.

He hadn't gotten to his chambers before Arthur found him.

"My prince...are you all right?" Arthur's face had grown concerned. "Your father has been looking for you quite urgently."

"I'm fine," Rhaegar said quietly. "I will go now. Walk with me—tell me how the Knight of the Laughing Tree fared today."

Striding alongside his friend, Ser Arthur Dayne smiled. "Well, I can say that he wasn't boasting when he said he would raise his game to suit his opponent. He is a better rider than he initially led us to believe."


	15. Chapter 15

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Fifteen – Souvenirs

When Rhaegar emerged from his father's quarters, he strode purposefully to his room, Arthur keeping close behind him.

"My prince? Rhaegar? What is it?"

Not missing a step, the prince looked around for ears. Not finding any, he spoke urgently but softly. "Remember the dream I told you of? My father had a similar dream—that I will be pierced through the chest by a fellow jouster here at Harrenhal. What is more, he also believes that same knight, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, will kill him, too."

Arthur's brow furrowed. Though both father and son often had dreams, he was always more inclined to look for truths in the fruits of Rhaegar's disciplined mind rather than the king's delirious ramblings. For them to have dreamt the same thing was unusual.

"Then I will not leave your side, my lord. You will be safe with—"

"I am already safe, Arthur, completely so. The lance is metaphorical not physical. But I fear for the safety of the Stark sons—father has it in his head that there is a plot against him."

Finally stopping as he flung open his chamber door, Rhaegar scrambled around for his peasant's cloak—his faithful disguise. Once it was wrapped around his shoulders, the hood pulled down over his face, he grabbed Ser Arthur's shoulders.

"You are a loyal knight of the kingsguard, and also my closest of friends. I need you to do something for me—something that might at first seem to be defying the king you swore to protect."

Ser Arthur shifted awkwardly, but he knew the serious crown prince would never ask him to compromise his oath lightly. After a while he nodded.

"My father believes that he must burn the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and that he is a Stark seeking to undermine him. I believe that his dream means that burning the Knight of the Laughing Tree will destroy both him and myself."

"But we have seen all of the Starks while the Knight of the Laughing Tree was present," Ser Arthur replied, but saw the look in his friend's eyes that said he knew more.

"Tonight, the king is going to ask everyone to unmask the mystery knight. We both know that the Starks have been seen, but I want you to make sure that you saw the youngest, Benjen Stark, on each occasion, whether you did in reality or not."

"Lie to my king?"

Rhaegar pleaded silently, and he saw how difficult the situation was for Arthur to swallow. "On this occasion the king needs protecting from himself. If he burns that boy in front of his entire family tomorrow, the kingdom will be torn apart. You can protect your king with a lie today, or you may find it even more difficult when his actions bring about a war with the North and the Vale."

Arthur did not have to give his answer verbally. Rhaegar was wise beyond his years, and it was rare that he predicted something that did not happen exactly so. He would lie to his king.

"Where are you going?" he asked the prince as he developed a stoop and limped towards the door, escaping strands of his white hair beneath the rough brown hood making him seem ancient.

"I'm going to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree before anyone else does. I shall see you at the feast. "

~X~

The sky was growing from orange, to pink, to lilac, as Lyanna sat on the stone ledge, looking out of her window.

Today had been the greatest day of her existence—nothing would ever compare to the thrill she had felt on the tourney field. And on the morrow, she would joust against the greatest knights in the seven kingdoms.

Her mood turned towards the bittersweet. Poor Ben. It would sit very hard with him—after all, it was him that had gotten the Knight of the Laughing Tree through the first two rounds, and now he had to sit, concealing his injured shoulder, while she received the cheers he'd earned.

But he was right—there would be other times for him. Eventually, when he was an ordained knight, he wouldn't have to hide behind poor armour and fake names. This was all there would be for Lyanna. Soon she'd be a wife and a mother, and it would be her turn to look on while her husband and sons got to do the things she longed and ached to.

It wasn't fair, to be restricted purely because she was born a female. She could ride better than most men, and now she knew she could also joust as good as many of them. Ser Aenys Frey had been the more talented of the three knights who they'd challenged in the name of Howland's honour. Three times they'd broke lances—she, Lyanna Stark, a _mere_ girl, had done that.

Tomorrow she would face Ser Barristan Selmy and Prince Rhaegar himself, though she did not believe she could win those matches, and internally she debated whether she should compete in the morning or not, given the risk of discovery. She could not put away the idea of her final moment of glory. Imagine if she won...

Sighing deeply and watching the sky turn to a deep navy, Lyanna decided that she would go and check on the horse hidden in the godswood—no doubt any guards who had observed her, her brother, and Howland's frequent visits to the home of the old gods would think that they were very devout indeed.

Putting on her cloak and grabbing a torch, she made her way, breathing the air deep into her lungs and smiling as she went on her way.

Passing the heart tree, its face still full of hate, Lyanna found the mare eating the grass in the same spot she had left her earlier. As she drew near, the beast raised its head and gave a short snort of recognition.

After running her finger down her long brown muzzle, Lyanna was suddenly alerted by the fact that one of the sacks of armour had fallen from the tree.

Before she could walk over, a hand covered her mouth while another grabbed one of her arms. Immediately, Lyanna struggled but a voice in her ear shushed her. Instead of heading it, she fought harder against the stranger's hold.

With a strong grip, she felt herself swung around and pinned against the tree. Aware of her female failings and the lack of strength her arms, Lyanna remembered why she couldn't run away and become a hedge knight. She was a girl, alone in the quiet, barely used but huge godswood of Harrenhal, while the castle was full of many persons unknown, with varying levels of chivalry.

"Shhh. Shhh. I'm here for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I'm not here to hurt you."

The name of both her and her brother's secret identity stilled her, and she looked up to see her attacker's face.

The dark purple eyes of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen looked down at her, and involuntarily, Lyanna gasped in recognition. The prince removed his hands from her skin and then took a step backward.

"I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to call out and attract attention. Apologies for frightening you."

Unable to speak at first, Lyanna simply looked at the famous young man before her, looking distinctly less regal in the dark, wearing simple clothing, as he did in his jewelled black armour. But why was he here?

"My prince," was all she managed to utter in the end.

"I know who you are. You are playing a very dangerous game, you and your brother. I came to warn you that it will soon become even more perilous."

The prince looked at her with a serious expression, waiting for an answer. Irritated by the idea that he might think she was simply another overwhelmed young girl, Lyanna forced herself to speak.

"Are you asking me not to joust tomorrow?"

Staring, his thoughts incomprehensible, the prince took a while to answer her question. "My lady is free to make up her own mind, but my father is quick to anger, and the mystery knight offends him. The Knight of the Laughing Tree might find him or herself accused of treason, even when none was meant."

"Treason?" Lyanna exclaimed, and then her first thought was of Ben. He would be the first to arouse suspicion before she did, and he still had his shoulder injury which many might recognise as coming from the second joust. Still, the decision was hard to make.

"I—I agree. The Knight of the Laughing Tree will not joust tomorrow. You have my word. Thank you for warning me."

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "You will need more than just my warning. All of this must be gone before the feast is over. Tonight all of Harrenhal will be searched for any sign—the Knight of the Laughing Tree must cease to exist immediately." He paused for a while. "I have made arrangements for your brother to have an alibi for the entire tournament. But nothing that can tie either of you to the mystery knight must be found."

Lyanna looked at the sack on the ground and the other still in the tree. "I will go get Howland...he will help—"

"No. He will be under suspicion, too. If either your brother or your friend are found with these in their hands it will be seen as a confirmation." The prince walked forward, climbed up the tree, and found the second clanking bag of mismatched armour. "You and I, we're less likely to be missed. Who would question the prince, and who would suspect a girl of being one of the tourney's champions?"

Prince Rhaegar smiled. Even if he was mocking her, Lyanna could rest happy knowing that one of the two remaining champions knew that she and her brother would have been amongst them—the future king of Westeros, no less.

After helping him bring the heavy bag to the ground, Rhaegar disappeared and came back with a heavy set horse. Tying the two sacks together, he allowed it to hang just in front of his saddle.

Assisting Lyanna in gathering up the rest of the equipment used to create the mystery knight's persona, he paused rather than helping her up onto her horse, and then handed up a number of items for her to hold as she rode. It was a gesture that went against traditional gallantry, yet she could see that the prince understood that she'd find it strangely flattering.

Once she was holding as much as she could carry, and the prince struggled to climb up into the saddle with the Knight of the Laughing Tree's remaining unbroken lances, she nodded. "There is a gap in the wall that way."

"So that is how you managed to get in and out of here unseen." The prince clumsily started his horse forward. "Tell me, how did you manage to find all of this equipment?"

Lyanna caught up with her lighter horse and lighter load, the shield tapping against her knee, but covered with Howland's stinking disguise. "My brother bought most of it with his own coin. He didn't dare buy a full suit, and probably wouldn't have had enough to pay for it. So he bought the dregs that no one else would want. Also, I...I won a sum from Ser Robert in a bet, which I gave as my contribution."

The prince gave a serious look, though in the dark with his brown hood, holding as much as his arms could carry, it was getting harder to remember that he was royalty, and not just another of her father's servants.

"Ser Robert is your betrothed, is he not?"

Lyanna had expected a comment on her brother's distinctive armour, or a question about which bet she had made, so it was hard to keep her face from reacting. "Yes," she said solemnly.

For a while they rode in silence, but then Prince Rhaegar spoke. "Let me let you in on a secret, Lyanna of House Stark. The kind of love that you hear about in tales or songs is a rare thing indeed. Love at first sight is really just an overwhelming lust and infatuation. True love starts small and then grows, from a seed of mutual understanding, friendship, and common goals."

From underneath his hood, his eyes met hers. "From the outside, it seems that your father found you a good match. Ser Robert Baratheon is a warrior, and no doubt he will appreciate having a wife as strong as yourself. There is a good chance you will grow to love each other."

Lyanna still felt the familiar sinking sensation inside despite the prince's words. "I don't want to fall in love—true or otherwise. All I want is to stay with my father and my brothers. The gods were cruel when they made me a woman. I should have been born a man." She turned to Rhaegar as they passed through the gap in the wall and brought their horses side by side once more. "If I were a man I would be able to buy my own armour, and joust under my own name. I won't be able to do that as Lady of Storm's End."

The prince said nothing, his eyes blank and staring as the reflection of the torchlight flickered in them. "Beyond your father's lands in the North, beyond the Wall, wildling women often take up arms. They call them spearwives. They know that when the dark comes, it will not discriminate over man, woman, or child, and so they all learn to defend themselves."

Laughing without humour, Lyanna replied, "I will be sure to tell that to my husband. Maybe he will still let me practice, in readiness for the coming of the dark. After all, it may be spring but winter will come again. It's the one thing my house is certain of."

They rode together in the dark, making their ways through the unfamiliar countryside.

"How do you manage to practice, my lady? I cannot imagine Lord Stark allows his only daughter to joust openly...or if he does, I congratulate him. We could do with more great lords so open minded."

Lyanna shook her head. "My brother and I have a secret practice field in the woods near Winterfell...but he's to become Lord Bolton's squire before long, and then I will have no one to practice with."

Rhaegar stopped his horse near a ditch, snapped the lances in half, and threw them into the soggy earth, covering them over as best as he could with stones, twigs, and grass. Climbing back on his horse, they continued onward, talking and stopping to hide more of the Knight of the Laughing Tree's distinctive armour. Lyanna noticed that her arms were unburdened first, though she wasn't yet ready to hand over the shield.

As the prince took the paints from her, he painted a white blaze down the face of her horse. "I will stable the horse with my own. It is the one place no one will think to look."

Giving her thanks, Lyanna was grateful. The mare had been a faithful beast, and had played its part well. At least in the royal stables she was sure of a good home—it was better than turning her loose and hoping that the person that found her would be a good master.

After hiding the battered old helm in some thick brambles, and the sacks with it, Rhaegar spoke as they ambled the final distance.

"When I was a young boy, I used to spend my time singing and practising my harp. Nothing used to give me more pleasure. But then, as I grew older and learned what it meant to be the oldest son of the king, I realised that I had responsibilities. So I put aside my harp and did my best to learn how to carry out my duties. It was all part of growing up."

Lyanna listened to what he was saying.

"I have my harp, and you have your jousting. They are both our joys and part of what makes us ourselves, even if we cannot always indulge when we want to. First we must be a prince, or the daughter of a great lord, and play our parts. We are given these gifts, talents, and longings for a reason. One day maybe we will find out why?"

Regarding her fellow conspirator, Lyanna said what she was thinking out loud. "One day the musical prince will be a wise king."

Rhaegar nodded his head. "And one day the jousting maid will be a great lady."

Suddenly breaking into a canter, Lyanna saw that he was heading for a large oak tree in a field of grass. Realising that it was finally time to let go of the final incriminating item—the shield—she caught up to him.

They tied up their horses and both climbed down, Lyanna gingerly removing the manure-scented cloak so she could say goodbye to the painted weirwood one final time. She ran her finger along its branches, and then along its curved, red mouth.

"My lady of the laughing tree, may I take your shield?"

Grinning at her title, given in secret to her by the royal knight by her side, she slowly passed it over to him. Then he climbed up the gnarled bark of the oak.

"Wait, you've forgotten the rags to cover it," she said to Rhaegar's feet as they slid up out of reach.

He found his footing and looked down at her. "This is the one thing we'll make easy for them to find." He hung the scratched blue shield from a branch, facing in the direction of the main entrance to Harrenhal. Jumping down, he dusted off his hands and looked up at his handiwork. "We'll make sure that the laughing tree has the last laugh."

As she looked up, she could see that the painted white tree found the situation very amusing. Turning to pass comment, she found Rhaegar closer than she thought and almost stumbled over his feet.

He reached out to steady her, and as she righted herself, she unexpectedly found herself in the circle of his arms. Rhaegar seemed equally as surprised, but instead of breaking the contact, they both paused, looking at each other.

For the shortest time, Lyanna forgot that he was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, crown prince and eldest son of King Aerys II, married to Princess Elia of Dorne; she also forgot that she was Lyanna of House Stark, only daughter of Lord Stark, Warden of the North, and promised to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. They were just a man and a girl, standing beneath an old oak tree in the moonlight in secret, while a painted white tree smiled down on them.

Tempted, that girl wondered what would happen if she wound her fingers around the few white blond strands that escaped from that man's hood. What would he do if she pressed her female body against his, and then stood on her toes to press her mouth to his?

The only sound was their breathing, until Lyanna realised that the air her lungs were frantically pulling inside stank of the rags she was still holding. Something changed in both of their eyes, and as Lyanna threw the old reeking cloak aside, Prince Rhaegar walked over to his horse and climbed on, waiting for Lyanna to do the same.

Ruefully, Lyanna complied and rode silently, reminding herself that the man in the dark cloak was acutely aware of his duty. He wouldn't throw caution to the wind for a few wild moments like Lyanna had wanted to, her inner wolf taking over and getting the better of her.

When they drew near to the gates, they stopped, and Lyanna knew it was time for her to climb down. Saying farewell to her horse, she then looked up at the man in the cloak.

"Thank you..."

"No, thank you, my lady," he replied, his voice cool and formal. "I will ensure she is well looked after. Does she have a name?"

Thinking for a while, Lyanna eventually answered, "Direwolf. That is what she should be called." She'd not thought to name the beast until now, and many suggestions had ran through her head—Lyanna, Laughing Tree, Red Smile, Howland's Honour, Moonlight, Oak...all highly inappropriate.

"Then that is what she shall be known as." He didn't smile. "I wish you well, my lady."

Lyanna nodded and curtsied, not wanting to give Prince Rhaegar his appropriate title and expose him.

And then he left with both horses. Lyanna made no move for a time, until she realised that she had missed most of the feast and should go join her family.

From the shadows of a dark stairwell, Ashara Dayne watched her pass by, but then changed her mind about following. Lady Ashara didn't have the strength of limb or spirit to keep up the Stark girl, wherever it was she was going. Nor did she care where Lyanna Stark had been.

All she did care about was how she had to leave the great hall the second Brandon Stark had walked in there and seated himself with his brothers. The way he held himself stiffly told that he still felt his injuries, and filled with concern, Ashara had wanted to rush over and help him.

The second his grey wolf eyes had met hers, she'd shrank back, and then gotten to her feet and left. What had she done to deserve a look of hate and disgust like the one he'd given? She'd given him everything that a woman could, everything that she'd wanted to the second she'd seen him ride underneath the arch when he'd first arrived at Harrenhal.

Before she'd even known his name, she'd known this man would be the father of her children, who would grow up to be as strong, raw, and fierce as he was. Once she'd found out that there was no way to dissuade him from breaking his arranged marriage to Catelyn Tully, she'd decided that she would be satisfied to just be his mistress, and she would have even married his brother to make that possible.

And now she had no hope. He despised her, she could see that. He'd cruelly taken what she'd offered and left her with nothing. Ashara fingered the broach holding her cloak together—a jewelled wolf that she'd found in amongst one of the trader's wares. Ser Barristan, always her friend, had offered to buy it for her, before she'd handed her maidenhood over to the cruel, cold wolf knight.

It was the only souvenir of her lost love that she could take away with her. Ashara squeezed her eyes shut as two lonely tears fell.


	16. Chapter 16

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Sixteen – A Guilty Mind

The moment that the uproar began, Lord Rickard Stark looked at his youngest son and his new found friend. If it wasn't for the fact that Benjen had been sat right by his side watching the Knight of the Laughing Tree earlier, the paling of his face and the way he looked at the Reed boy would have convinced him of his guilt.

Lord Rickard pushed a plate of meat between the two. "Eat, if you know what's good for you. They say that nerves affect a man's stomach first, and that if he can keep food in his belly his conscience is clear." And hopefully the onlookers would remember the same saying...

Apprehensively, he watched Benjen pull off a strip and chew on it very slowly. Young Howland Reed was equally as reluctant, and Lord Stark pondered the possibility of the young man from the swamps defending his own honour. Crannogmen didn't often ride horses, given the landscape they were accustomed to, and he doubted that they had much opportunity to try their hand at jousting.

Though maybe if he'd had a little instruction from those who had...and had some measure of natural talent...

Benjen continued to chew his mouthful of meat very thoroughly before swallowing, his eyes not meeting his father's. And where was Lyanna? No doubt she was off playing at being a boy, not a care in the world about the fact she might be missed at dinner.

If the two youngest Starks thought they had managed to keep their secret practices hidden, they were very much mistaken. Lord Rickard had found their makeshift tourney field himself, though instead of being angry he'd actually been quietly impressed with their ingenuity.

At times he was too lenient with his children, he knew it. The wolf's blood had skipped a generation, and had come back in concentrated form. Lyanna was wild, untameable, and even the powerful young Lord of Storm's End would have his hands full. No leash would have taught her to walk instead of run and behave as a lady should; so he'd allowed her to be herself from an early age rather than try and force her to be any different.

There was still hope for Ben, and Lord Rickard had no doubt that Roose Bolton would manage to keep him on the straight and narrow. Loathe as he was to part his youngest offspring, being as close as they were, it could only help impressionable Ben.

Ned—he didn't need a leash. Calm, and measured, Lord Rickard watched him looking at Howland and Benjen, probably thinking along the same lines as he himself had only moments before. The wolf's blood did not run so strong in him, and he was calm, measured, and loyal. Very much his father's son.

As much as Lyanna and Ben needed separating, Brandon and Ned needed to be together. When someone across the room spoke up and pointed out the strange coincidence that the knights that the Knight of the Laughing Tree had challenged the knights Howland's attackers squired for, looking pointedly at the youngest Stark, Brandon was the first to his feet, shouting his protests.

Lord Rickard himself cleared his throat and spoke up to say that Ben had been sat with him when the mystery knight was present earlier, and then the hall descended into yells of who had and hadn't seen Ben and his friend, and when.

It wasn't until Ser Arthur Dayne of the kingsguard stepped forward and proclaimed that he was certain he had seen young Benjen Stark and his friend on each occasion that the accusations died down.

Then Prince Rhaegar finally attended the feast, and the room calmed a little while he asked to be appraised of the discussion so far.

It was at this point that Ser Bryen Blount commented that Brandon had vouched for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, along with Ser Jamie Lannister, now inconveniently leagues away in King's Landing.

Unable to give the knight's true identity, and proving himself to be a liar, Brandon answered with shouts and insults until his father pulled him back down to be seated on the bench.

Prince Rhaegar managed to keep some kind of order, at least until Lyanna finally graced the room with her presence. She'd not yet reached her family's table when Ser Aenys made his voice heard.

"It might be worth noting that the young lady of the north fought off my squire and those of my fellow defeated knights. Where did she get the sword, and how could a maid wield it with such skill?"

There was a murmur of agreement, and suddenly all eyes were on Lord Rickard's daughter, frozen to the spot.

Lyanna looked sufficiently confused, and quickly glanced down at her gown, as if emphasising the fact she was a mere female. A slight blush rose up her neck but her voice did not falter. "Anyone can swing a sword—be they a knight, a woman, or even a child. I was running an errand for my older brother, and happened to have a tourney sword to hand."

Ser Leslyn shook his head. "My squire said that you fought like you were trained to do more than simply swing a sword in a man's direction. You have three brothers...no doubt you've watched them fight once or twice, maybe even watched them joust. Perhaps you watched so intently you thought you'd try it for yourself—to embarrass those who your crannogman friend found trouble with.

Lyanna's blush faded as a grin stretched across her face. "I'm sure your squires did tell you that I fought like more than a mere maid. Who could stand the shame of that? Three boys vanquished by a girl with no fighting experience, wielding a blunted tourney sword? No doubt they'd have you believe that I was the long lost sister of the Sword of the Morning himself!"

The benches erupted with laughter, and the three defeated knights became silent.

Smiling the young prince shouted, "I saw this young lady with my own eyes during the Knight of the Laughing Tree's first joust. Once we start shouting about maids being champions, capable of defeating ordained knights, then we have no chance of discovering his true identity. The truth is that many people saw the squires with the crannogman that day, and it is entirely possible that he wasn't their only victim, only the best known thanks to the bravery of a young girl—"

Getting to his feet, King Aerys banged his wizened fist on the table before him.

"I will not have it." The only sound was that of cutlery being dropped, the squeak and shift of leather and metal. "It is clear that whoever this...person is, they are not a knight. They have fraudulently entered the competition, and I will not have someone who is not ordained, who has not spoken their vows, riding against my own blood."

The slightest of murmurs agreed with the king, his speech louder and more powerful than his aging form would indicate. Despite the hidden turmoil of his mind, he was still very much a charismatic and persuasive ruler.

"I do not know whether he is here or not, but let this supposed knight earn the title 'Ser'." King Aerys pointed his finger around the room, at no one in particular. "If he can meet the challenges that anyone might see fit to make on the morrow—jousting, melee, archery, I care not which—and if he is truly a champion, then I will ordain him myself."

There were one or two cheers and a brief moment of applause, but the king had not finished.

"And if someone could unmask this inpudent 'knight' before the night is over, then that man will have earned my gratitude. In return for their service, I will grant any reasonable request—land, titles, gold..."

The feverish excitement of the crowd flowed over, and Ser Richard Lonmouth was the first to proclaim that he would seek out this knight in the name of King Aerys, the second of his name. It didn't take long for young Lord Robert to get to his feet, make a similar oath, and then storm out of the room.

Shaking his head at the sudden crush to go seek out whichever poor soul had donned the patchwork armour in the name of honour, and who it seemed would die for it too, Lord Arryn nodded towards his other ward to go with his friend, lest he do something reckless.

Ned dutifully got to his feet, and Brandon made to go with him, but Lord Rickard shook his head.

"Someone had best stay with these three, in case someone tries to accuse them again."

Suddenly realising that she was being talked about, Lyanna shook herself out of a trance. Her father followed the line of where she had been staring and found himself looking at the prince.

Confused, his brow furrowed. Maybe there was a girl inside his daughter after all. Maybe she was actually innocent of what he suspected? Or maybe he should speed along her wedding before she could cause any more trouble?

~X~

Lyanna lay away in her bed, looking at the candle, and imagining herself stood beneath the oak tree in the moonlight once more. Only this time she wasn't with honourable Prince Rhaegar; she was with a nameless boy, a boy with white-blond hair escaping from his brown hood, only this time he didn't have any moral compunctions stopping him from furthering their embrace.

Earlier, she'd decided that she wasn't just another silly young girl fawning over a handsome fairytale prince, imagining herself to be a princess. It wasn't about the fact he was a prince at all. In fact, in his black and red finery, sat between his wife and the king, _that_ Rhaegar had been a complete stranger.

No, instead she was captivated by the young man who had helped her cover up the Knight of the Laughing Tree's secret identities. The serious boy who had asked questions and given her wise advice as he'd broken lances, and scrubbed amongst ditches and hedgerows to hide the evidence. The fellow jouster who had approved of and been impressed by her efforts. The first man that she'd ever wanted to kiss...

Lyanna tossed and turned as she found sleep hard to find.

Would her betrothed have done the same thing in the circumstances? Maybe if Robert spoke to her more she might also warm to him, too? Lyanna thought, but couldn't convince herself.

One day, many years down the line, I'll be able to turn to him over the breakfast table and say, "Remember Harrenhal? My brother, Howland Reed, and I were all the Knight of the Laughing Tree," and he'll be impressed, Lyanna told herself.

But it wouldn't be the same. By that time, the Knight of the Laughing Tree would be a tale very rarely told, fading away into the histories of champions that never were.

With a sigh, she climbed from beneath her blanket and grabbed her robe. Peeking out from her door, she couldn't see Brandon prowling outside her and her youngest brother's room, and she quietly tiptoed down the corridor, quickly opening and closing the door behind her.

Ben was also still awake, though for a very different reason.

"Lyanna!" Ben lowered his voice to a whisper once Lyanna lifted her finger to her lips. "What are we going to do? They'll search the godswood for sure—"

"And they'll find nothing." Lyanna gave a wide grin as she sat on the end of her worried sibling's bed.

"But what...how?" The smugness on his sister's face told Ben who had hidden the armour and lances.

"I was warned what was going to happen, and so we hid everything. All anyone will find in the godswood is trampled earth."

Ben visibly relaxed. "Who warned you? How did they know?"

Wondering whether to say or not, Lyanna paused, but then eventually spoke when it became obvious that Ben wouldn't forget about his question any time soon. "The prince..."

"The prince? Prince Rhaegar?" Ben asked in disbelief. "You're jesting."

"Yes, Prince Rhaegar warned me that his father was angry, and then assisted me. You don't believe me...tomorrow we'll walk by the royal stables and you might recognise one of the horses there, only she'll have a white blaze painted down her face."

"Why? Why would the prince warn us what the king was planning? What did he say? Did he really help you hide the armour, or did he bring a servant?"

"He's a good man," Lyanna answered Ben's barrage of questions, "and one day he'll be a good king. No, he didn't bring a servant. He helped me with his own hands."

Picking up on the wistfulness in his older sister's voice, Ben's brow wrinkled. "You're in love with him?"

"Of course not...he's married." Lyanna added mentally that she wished he wasn't, and that he wasn't royalty. Just that thinking about him made her feel almost as alive as when she'd worn the patchwork armour and hurtled down the tourney field, lance in hand.

Outside the room, Brandon had been listening with amusement as he discovered Ben and Lyanna's guilt. Despite the trouble, he couldn't help but feel a certain amount of pride that, between the two, they'd made sure the Stark family were represented amongst the final champions, but something in the way Lyanna's words caught in her throat as she spoke about Prince Rhaegar caused his nostrils to flare with rage.

A prince he might be, with a reputation for honour, but he was still a man. The rumours of his father's liking for bedding women who did not belong to him were well known, and no doubt he'd been raised with a similar sense of entitlement. It was hard to miss the way that almost all females looked at him with a sigh, though he'd never thought of Lyanna as the type to behave in that way.

_She's growing up_, he realised, _and she's turning into a very beautiful young woman. When did that happen? And who else other than Lord Robert and the prince had noticed?_

Feeling suddenly very protective, Brandon swore to himself that, unless they were her rightful husband, anyone who laid hands on his sister would have her oldest brother to reckon with.


	17. Chapter 17

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Seventeen – Needle in a Haystack

Wiping his weary eyes, Ned followed Jon Arryn to the stands where they would join his father and his siblings, to make a show of them all being present.

If someone had found the Knight of the Laughing Tree then he'd not heard of it, though it could be that the king wanted to keep it secret until this morning, to do it publically.

Looking to his left, Ned saw Robb sucking deep lungfuls of air, seemingly even more tired than Ned was himself.

Last night, the two of them had joined dozens upon dozens of other knights scouring Harrenhal for any sign of the mystery knight's identity. Ned himself had suggested they searched the godswood, partly because of the weirwood on the knight's shield, and partly because at least that would give Robb plenty of room to stay away from his fellow glory-seekers—he had been feeling particularly vocal at the time.

While they walked through the trees Robb had drunk his way through a number of wine skins, and though Ned had joined him there had been a point where he'd realised that if he drank any more, then he'd not see the Knight of the Laughing Tree even if he stood six feet in front of him.

Eventually, Robb had begun to stumble and instead they'd sat on the dirt, their backs against a trunk.

Mostly Robb had talked about the grey of Lyanna's eyes, her dark hair, and disturbingly, about the lines of her body in gross detail. It had made Ned feel uncomfortable, and he'd wanted to change the subject to waxing lyrical about Ashara Dayne's aesthetics instead, but after struggling to allow the words to pass his lips he'd given up, instead falling into a bout of amused laughter with his friend.

When the sky had begun to grow light, he'd dragged a near unconscious Robb to his feet and half-carried him to his room, trying to keep him from singing and shouting on the way. The act had helped sober Ned, though the few hours sleep in his bed were not enough.

Things were much worse with Robb. Ned shook his head at him, but Robb gave him a glassy eyed glare and continued to breathe through his grape-inflicted sickness.

Once they were seated with the rest of his family, in the front row so all behind could see, Ned automatically looked around for the object of his affection, and found her sitting with the rest of Princess Elia's ladies in waiting. Half of the crowd was buzzing with excitement, wondering what had happened with the mystery knight, and the rest sat sombre and silent—Ashara Dayne was amongst the latter.

Briefly, as if feeling herself watched, she looked around and their gazes locked. Where once a similar action had rewarded him with a smile, this time Ashara's mouth curved downwards, and as she pulled herself away, her eyes looked wet. The expression almost caused Ned to get up out of his seat and go to her, to ask what it was making her so sad, but then he remembered that would be highly inappropriate.

He wasn't her friend and he wasn't her confidante—he'd danced with her for one night, and then she'd blessed him with flirtatious smiles for a short while after. Maybe he'd not done enough to hold her attention. Perhaps she'd been waiting for him to take the field and been disappointed...but no. She had unshed tears in her eyes, which were rimmed with red.

That was when his eyes saw the clasp at her throat, and the world lurched beneath him.

Why was Ashara Dayne wearing a wolf clasp? Was there a meaning to it? Was it a signal, or just a coincidence?

As Eddard Stark turned away, deep in thought, thinking about the simple piece of jewellery around Ashara Dayne's neck, more than one person watched the expressions of emotional pain on both faces and reached their own conclusions, including Cersei Lannister.

Then horns sounded, and all attention was drawn to the field. People craned their necks to look at the very reason the stands were so crowded that day.

Prince Rhaegar, in black, red, orange, and yellow, entered the field first, his men parting way after for Ser Barristan Selmy of the kingsguard, with his plain white cloak and shield. The crowd waited, hoping for another arrival, and when none was forthcoming, they turned to one another. Although all voices were hushed, their combined murmurs soon grew in volume and brought the king to his feet.

"It would appear that we are missing a challenger." The stands fell silent. "It seems that the Knight of the Laughing Tree does not wish to take up my offer to knight them myself..."

The king paused, inviting the mystery knight should he be present.

"Then I can only assume that the face behind that helm belongs to no friend of mine. And what of the rest of you? I saw at least a dozen men rush out of the hall last night. Have none of you found this imposter?"

There was a murmur from the crowd but it took a while for a red-headed hedge knight to speak up. He stepped forwarded, a nervous and grimy looking commoner by his side. "I have found the armourer who sold the Knight of the Laughing Tree his helm, your Grace."

This excited the crowd, and brought a smile to the king's face. "And to whom did you sell it to?"

Encouraged along, the man and the knight that had found him approached their monarch.

"I—I sold it to a boy, dark of hair, your Grace. If I remember correctly he had a Northern accent."

The king gave him an intense stare. "Would you recognise this boy if you saw him again?" A boy—he knew it. Probably a squire or a young lord...his mind drifted to the youngest Stark, and pondered the reliability of his alibis.

"Maybe...I'm not sure. If I could beg your pardon, but I didn't take much note at the time. If the helm were found and I could examine it, then my mark is inside and a number of dents that I can recall..."

The king did his best to conceal a look of frustration and annoyance. What use was this peasant if he couldn't even remember who he had sold to? King Aerys looked between him and the hedge knight, wondering if this was a trick to cheat him out of the riches he had promised.

"I have something better than a forgetful armourer." Ser Richard Lonmouth, got to his feet, bowed his head, and then made his way through the stands. Only himself and Prince Rhaegar knowing what was underneath the brown cloth he was carrying.

That night, after the feast, his friend, the prince, had suggested they look outside of Harrenhal's walls as most others seemed to have concentrated their search within them. Leading the way, he'd allowed Ser Richard to spy the oak tree first.

Kneeling before the king, Ser Richard pulled away the brown fabric, and the crowd gasped.

"The shield that belonged to the Knight of the Laughing Tree, your Grace."

Rhaegar moved only his eyes to watch the reaction of the shield's two former owners. They seemed surprised, but no more shocked to see it than anyone around them.

"And where did you find this, Ser?"

The prince wondered if he had done the right thing in allowing his friend to present the find—his father's eyes were narrowed and seemed suspicious.

"In an oak tree on the road leading away from Harrenhal, your Grace. Your own son followed the trail leading away but we found nothing else."

The king nodded at Ser Arthur Dayne, who stepped forward to take the shield and bring it for a closer inspection. After running his fingers across the chipped and scratched surface King Aerys decided that it was genuine, and that Ser Richard Lonmouth was too tall to be the knight himself.

"A symbol left in defiance of the king's wishes, a mockery," the king said under his breath, but then raised his voice. "I hereby declare the Knight of the Laughing Tree to be a traitor, to be brought alive before myself to face the king's justice. Let this be known to everyone throughout the land."

Whispers ran through the crowd like wind through leaves, while the king turned to the three men still standing before him.

"We will discuss the reward I will give you all for your services later—please come and see me in my solar after the jousting." He smiled widely, and the three were dismissed. Climbing back onto his chair, the king signalled for a drink as the preparations for the final joust began.

Even across the field, Prince Rhaegar could see the gleam in his father's eyes, and resolved to make sure he accompanied Ser Richard later when he visited the king, lest his reward be a fiery end.

~X~

**Sorry for the delay with this chapter—I've had a little bit of writers block lately.**

**I'm probably not going to get the chance to work on the next chapter until after the holidays now, so have a great time, have fun, enjoy whatever it is you're doing to celebrate, and if you can't be good, be careful. Mistletoe kisses, Leanne**


	18. Chapter 18

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Eighteen – A Crown of Blue Roses

The white knight faced the black knight across the field. Both were renowned champions, but still a distracted murmur ran through the crowd—Lyanna could feel it.

They wished the Knight of the Laughing Tree was here to compete—or to see what it was that the king intended to do with them. She looked at her brother, who was still holding his shoulder hunched and stiff. If the knight was here it would be me, she thought, and felt an overwhelming longing to be there on the field, armoured and ready to joust.

She'd never felt more alive than she had been holding that lance, hearing the roar of the crowd and the clash of wood on metal. Moments like that were worth dying for, but they weren't worth risking your family. No doubt the memory would keep her warm at night for many years, even when she grew old and wrinkled, and she couldn't imagine anything would ever overtake it in the forefront of her mind.

For just one day, Lyanna realised, I was the person I was always meant to be. One day of brilliant colour, and from now on everything will seem grey.

The black knight spurred his horse and the two competitors raced toward each other. Lyanna willed Prince Rhaegar on.

After he'd offered her his assistance, she'd seen the real person behind the popular crown prince. Knowing what he was truly like, if she'd been born male should would have gladly sworn her sword to him, followed him into battle, maybe even join his kingsguard should she be good enough...

Lyanna snapped out of her daydream as Ser Barristan fell to the earth and the crowd erupted. Some proclaimed Prince Rhaegar the greatest champion of the greatest ever tourney; others just roared.

Would they have cheered as loud for me? Lyanna wondered, watching Rhaegar lift his visor, ride up to Ser Barristan, and shake his hand. They exchanged some words but Lyanna was too far away to hear. Prince Rhaegar smiled for a short while, and admiration and jealousy went to war inside her chest.

Waving at the crowd, for a second Lyanna thought his gaze rested on her for a second and her heart fluttered.

Don't be stupid, Lyanna, she scolded herself mentally. You were the Knight of the Laughing Tree. He would have had to joust against you had you shown up to compete. Of course he'd take note of you for a brief moment.

The prince rode up the field, his serious face returned, and he handed his lance, shield, and visor to his squire.

Time for all the pomp and ceremony, now that the fun part is over, Lyanna thought with a sigh. Seeing the wistful look on Ben's face, she quickly squeezed his hand to show that she knew what he was feeling. As they'd discussed last night, he would have other times. He could be the great knight that both of them wanted to be.

Ben smiled, and then his brow wrinkled. Lyanna turned to see what it was that made her youngest brother react that way.

Prince Rhaegar was holding a crown of blue roses in his hand, but by now he'd ridden past where Princess Elia and her entourage were seated. Part of the ceremony was that the champion would choose a woman from the crowd and crown her the queen of love and beauty. For single knights it was a great honour to bestow on someone they admired, often sparking wedding negotiations and future betrothals. For married knights it was a mere formality...

Prince Rhaegar rode closer and paused in front of her on his black horse, before holding the blue rose crown over the wooden barrier.

"For the lady of Stark. Truly, this tourney would not have been the same without you. Please take this crown in honour of your beauty _and your spirit_."

Lyanna, barely able to breathe, reached forward and took it from him, the flowers seeming fragile in his black gauntleted hands. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Robert, seated further along the bench, make a move, but Lord Arryn caught his shoulder and forced him to sit down. Ben's mouth was wide open in shock.

"Thank you," Lyanna croaked, thrilled at the covert recognition of her participation in the event, but also mortified at the fact all eyes were on her, and no doubt coming to a very wrong conclusion. She felt the back of her neck and then her face burn and flush.

Looking her in the eyes, his face still and serious, Rhaegar turned his horse the opposite way and headed towards where his father and his wife were sitting.

Lyanna's own father was looking down at her, as stoic as ever, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Brandon's gaze followed the prince, looking almost as furious as Robert.

"Brandon," her father said quietly, "I think it may be for the best if you escorted Lyanna back to our quarters and remain there with her..." Lyanna watched his focus switch from her to the king, who was amongst those staring at Lyanna herself.

Brandon almost dragged her from the stands, and as she went she heard the whispers following alongside her.

Once they were alone and climbing the steps of the tower they were staying in, Brandon finally spoke. "Would you like to tell me what is going on between you and Prince Rhaegar?" he almost hissed, still holding her elbow roughly.

"Nothing!"

Brandon paused. "So you expect me to believe, along with the rest of the crowd, that the 'good prince' decided to embarrass his wife, our family, you, and himself simply because he was overcome by your beauty?"

"No!" Lyanna spat back.

"You're pretty, but you're not _that pretty_, Lyanna. But then again, a jousting maid might make herself stand out. I know what you and Ben were doing. How did the prince get involved?"

"You know?" Lyanna's eyes grew wide, but Brandon fell quiet as they walked past the two northern men standing guard. He waited until they were in the sanctuary of Lyanna's room before he answered.

"Yes, I know. You should hope that no one else does after he gave you that." He pointed at the blue rose crown Lyanna held in her hands. "Now what did the prince do? Don't make me go and ask him myself."

"He warned me that his father wanted to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree...and he helped me hide the evidence."

"And what did he get in return?" Brandon's voice was a low, threatening growl.

"Nothing! Is that what you take me for, brother dear?" Lyanna was furious at the aspersion being cast. "Prince Rhaegar is an honourable knight."

With a humourless chuckle, Brandon watched Lyanna place her rose crown carefully on a chest. "Oh, yes. Very honourable. I'm sure his wife is thinking the same thing this very moment."

Unable to retort, Lyanna sat on her bed, feeling ashamed.

"A true man of honour is a rare thing, Lyanna, especially when a pretty maid is involved. You are still a maid, aren't you?"

A blanket was thrown across the room, wrapping itself around Brandon's face. When he removed it he saw Lyanna scowling in his direction.

"Yes, I am still a maid, and I can assure you that the prince behaved properly the entire time. Do you think I'm some kind of whore, or some lovesick little girl fawning over the handsome prince?"

Brandon laughed. "No, I take you for one of the fierce she-wolves of Winterfell come again. My sister and my baby brother...the Knights of the Laughing Tree."

It always struck Lyanna how quick and unpredictable her oldest brother's tempers were, but when he smiled it was hard not to smile with him.

"We did better than you." Lyanna raised her eyebrows and waited for his response.

"Aye—but there were two of you. I daresay Ben's shoulder is still sore."

The two jousted verbally until the day had passed, and the sun began to sink below the high walls of Harrenhal.

~X~

Ashara had been watching the Stark table all evening, and as he got to his feet and made to leave, she saw her moment. None of his companions made to go with him.

Getting to her own feet, Ashara followed him out into night air, hurrying to catch up with him as best as her skirts and petticoats would allow.

"My lord! Please...wait."

The figure in the dark stopped and slowly turned. Ashara saw the moment he recognised her, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging open.

"My lady..."

He hadn't spoken much the first time they'd danced. Listening to his voice, there was a similarity in accent and tone, but where Brandon had spoken with a low growl, his younger brother's voice was much more mellow.

She caught up with him. His eyes were also different; Brandon's had been full of confidence, but Ned's looked as if he was almost afraid of her.

Maybe he should be? she thought, but aloud she asked, "I don't mean to seem improper, but is there somewhere we could talk...alone?"

Eddard Stark swallowed and it took a few moments for him to find his voice. "The...the godswood, perhaps?"

He's still a boy, Ashara thought as she looked up at him. Not like Brandon—Brandon is a man. Maybe, once he's a little less green, he might grow to be more like his older brother?

"Yes," she agreed with her most charming smile and held out her hand.

As he led the way, Ashara looked around for eyes that might watch them pass by...a guard or two, a stable boy...Ashara saw a glimpse of blonde curls. Could it be Cersei Lannister, the Hand's daughter? Ashara knew her from Kings Landing. She seemed the type who would enjoy advertising a scandal should one present itself.

They didn't go far into the wood, staying close to the entrance as they had neglected to bring a torch. Still, Ashara didn't need to see him in the light to sense his nervousness.

"My lady, you wished to speak with me?"

Ashara couldn't help but give a wide smile. The younger brother truly was an innocent.

"Yes," she whispered as she walked closer. Eddard took a step backward before Ashara got close enough to put her hands on his chest. She traced the familiar wolf sigil on his doublet. "Please, call me Ashara."

Eddard mumbled something incomprehensible as Ashara pressed herself closer. She looked into his eyes as her arms wound around his neck, and saw that he was as hypnotised as a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake.

His hands found her shoulders as she lifted her mouth to his. At first he held himself stiffly, but after a short while he responded. It wasn't until her fingers travelled down his body to his breeches that the hands on her shoulders forced her away.

"My lady...Ashara?"

Ashara lifted her right hand to the grip on her left shoulder, tracing a looping line to his elbow, and then along his upper arm as he relaxed and she drew close once more. The trail of her fingers travelled up his neck to his face, with its soft stubble reminding her that this boy wasn't quite his older brother. Brandon's stubble had been coarse, where Eddard's was more downy.

This time, as she kissed him, his hands tangled in her hair. Ashara felt victory in her grasp. If the older brother refused to marry her, or marry her to his brother so she could remain near, then she would force a marriage herself. If she could make the younger brother love her enough, and maybe create a scandal that the Starks might want to keep buried...

Pressing her body to his, hands on her shoulders pushed her away once more.

"Please," she whispered desperately, looking up into Eddard's eyes. He wanted her, she could tell.

Warm hands cupped her cheeks, but as she lifted her face to continue the kiss, she was disappointed as his lips pressed to her brow. Looking down into her face, he seemed unsure of what to say, but in the end he said, "I won't allow myself to dishonour you in that way."

Holding onto his forearm, she whispered, "I'm not a maid," and Eddard's brow furrowed.

"I—I am. And I intend to stay that way until I'm wed." His breathing was loud, and Ashara was still close enough to feel the pounding within his chest. His hands dropped to her upper arms and rubbed her reassuringly. It was more of a brotherly embrace than one of passion.

"And have you found a girl to be your wife?"

His eyes answered long before his voice did. "If she'd have me. If her family would allow it. If my father would allow it..."

He's not his brother. Ashara heard in the softness in his voice, the gentle way in which he'd refused her. Still, she had the offer she'd aimed to achieve, but her victory felt hollow.

Brandon and Ashara, they were alike. Eddard was an innocent. Over the past few days she'd almost convinced herself that she hated the oldest Stark sibling for the way he'd treated her, and now she was doing the same to his younger brother. Did that make her as cruel and heartless as he was?

No, not heartless, Ashara thought as she felt the tightness and shame inside her, though I wish I was. No doubt Eddard would marry her and be glad of it, and then she'd live out the rest of her days in the north as his wife. He would be a sweet husband, and honourable, she could see. He would adore her...

And all the time she would be looking over his shoulder at Brandon, the future Lord Stark. When Brandon married Catelyn Tully she would have to curtsy and call her Lady Stark, and that would be the bitterest potion of all.

A tear rolled down Ashara's cheek.

"You're crying?" Eddard asked, wiping the droplet away.

Giving a sad smile, Ashara untangled herself from him. "I can't marry you. I'm sorry. I should leave."

As she turned he caught up with her. "Let me see you back safely—"

"No!" she replied a little too loud. "No. It might look...wrong...should anyone see us. I made a mistake in bringing you here. Please, let me go."

This time he didn't follow.

From the shadows, Prince Rhaegar watched, hidden from view. He knew the emotion expressed in the way Eddard Stark was holding himself all too well. He'd done the right thing in refusing, but the self-denial stung. After it would choke him, and haunt his dreams with "What ifs?"

Prince Rhaegar was here in the godswood in the hope that Lyanna Stark would come to visit, maybe to visit the place where the Knight of the Laughing Tree had made his and her home. He half hoped that she might want to speak to him, too.

He needed to explain why he had given her the crown. He'd seen her in the crowd, seated next to her brother, when he'd won the tourney. It had felt right to reward her bravery. Had his father been more sane and even-tempered she would have been on the field, jousting against Ser Barristan and himself.

Instead he'd given the honour of being the queen of love and beauty, and she _was_ fair. Though, when you knew her quality, she became more than fair—she was beautiful. She was braver and more honourable than many knights he knew, and made a good case for allowing the fairer sex to join their number. Maybe, when he was king...

Lord Robert Baratheon was beyond lucky to have her as his betrothed. The sons she gave him would be fierce warriors.

_Three, there must be three_. The thought came to Rhaegar unbidden, and he quickly pushed it away.

No, he had done enough damage to Lyanna Stark when he gave her the crown of blue roses. And he had done enough damage to his own marriage. When he'd seen his wife after crowning Lyanna, he'd recognised how hurt she was.

Later, when alone, he'd tried to explain that Lyanna Stark and her brother were the Knights of the Laughing Tree, but for all she listened to him, he could see that she didn't truly understand. Instead, she had felt inadequate. They both knew all too well that she couldn't bear him the third child he craved. The three that the prophecy demanded.

The number weighed heavy on his mind, as did Lyanna Stark.

Rhaegar watched Eddard Stark leave the godswood, and followed as soon as he was out of sight.

The prince had been foolish to come here. What would he tell his wife when he returned? The truth? That he'd been waiting in the godswood to explain to Lyanna Stark why he'd crowned her the queen of love and beauty?

No. Elia wouldn't shout, scream, or tell him how much he'd shamed her, but he would see it in her face. He, Rhaegar, had made her feel that way.

Looking back, he knew he'd compromised himself. It had been confirmed when he accompanied Ser Richard to his father's quarters to receive his reward. His father had laughed at him, and he had said, "You've found your Joanna. You grow more like me every day."

Nothing could have made Rhaegar feel worse.


	19. Chapter 19

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Nineteen – A Year in Westeros, Part 1 – The Riverlands

Catelyn allowed herself to be helped up into the saddle, and as she took the reins she looked around frantically.

"Where's Lysa?"

"She's going in the wagon, m'lady. Your father says she weren't feeling up to the ride," the stable hand replied, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, before rubbing it on his pants.

Poor Lysa, Catelyn thought. She'd missed nearly the entire tourney, and Cat was beginning to feel very concerned for her sister's health. She'd tried to visit numerous times but her father wouldn't allow it. He said that it might be contagious, and that we couldn't have the Starks thinking they were joining with a sickly house.

Lysa not being there felt very alien, and it was hard to swallow the fact that it would be something Cat would have to become accustomed to once she was married and living in Winterfell.

Winterfell...what was it like? Cat dreamed up a picture of a courtyard filled with snow, a tree in the centre with icicles hanging from its branches, and beneath it stood her husband to be. Ser Brandon Stark was wearing a pristine white surcoat, revealing an ornate patterned grey shirt underneath. Dream Cat made footprints in the untouched snow as she walked toward her dream knight, her Tully blue and red velvet cloak making the reds in her hair burn even brighter.

Once she drew close enough for him to take her hand, she looked up and her betrothed give her one of those knowing smiles that were so perfectly him. His eyes...there was something about the way they creased when they pointed in your direction—half as if he found you amusing, half as if he really was a wolf and wanted to eat you.

The sudden movement of her horse as those around her took the first step on their journey home was the only thing that stopped Cat melting, falling to the floor in a puddle of warm, sticky goo. Still, the daydream didn't quite disappear from her mind.

My betrothed, Cat reminded herself, and wished so hard that she'd had the chance to wave goodbye as the Starks passed under this same gate. Just for her own piece of mind, she wanted to see that he wasn't badly hurt from his joust against the prince. Though he had seemed healthy enough towards the end of the tourney...

Brandon, his lord father, and his youngest siblings had been one of the first to leave Harrenhal, and probably not just because the road north was a long one.

Catelyn had been there when they'd accused little Benjen Stark of being the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Even her sister-in-law to be, Lyanna, had been bandied about as a possible suspect, but defended herself well. But then there was the matter of her flowery crown...

Lyanna Stark had turned puce as Prince Rhaegar handed her the circlet of blue roses. It was quite the scandal of the tourney—possibly the only thing to eclipse the mystery of the unknown jouster.

Cat had thought long and hard about it, given that her future family were so involved. That the female half of the crowd wished they were the northern girl during that moment went without saying, and half of the aspersions that had been cast had been done out of jealousy. But Cat had imagined herself as Princess Elia, and wondered how she would have felt had it been Brandon presenting another girl with that same crown.

It was an ugly business, and the Starks had rightly kept a low profile after that. Well, as low profile as they could.

"Wild," her father had called them. "It's a good thing I need to have at least one daughter wed, otherwise I might reconsider after this. Only ones that have any kind of sense in them are the father and that middle son—Ed, Ned, whatever you call him."

Eddard, Cat recalled. His name is Eddard. Though she couldn't quite remember his face, only that he was the ward of Lord Arryn of the Vale, and close friends with Lord Robert Baratheon—who despite being young had done so very well in the seven-sided melee.

Lysa would have loved to have watched the melee, those strong men fighting pitting themselves against one another in the name of honour and glory, Cat mused.

Her own father hadn't been himself lately; Cat strongly suspected it was out of concern for Lysa, too, and she couldn't blame him for that. Things weren't the same without her younger sister.

Harrenhal had been a spectacle, and she missed being able to sneak into her sister's room to talk about the events of the day in great detail. Who had embarrassed themselves today? Who wore the most beautiful gown? Who was the most dashing knight?

Cat began to feel lonely. Was this what the future would hold for her?

By the time she arrived at Winterfell, Lyanna Stark might already be married and settled at Storm's End. Who would she turn to for female companionship? No matter how handsome their husband, a woman needed a friend to gossip with and confide in.

For a moment Cat felt conflicted. Part of her wanted to be a married lady as soon as possible, while part of her already pined for home, Riverrun.

Once they'd returned to the familiar castle of her birth, it didn't take Cat long to realise that even there, things had changed.

Lysa finally emerged from her sickroom, though the colour still hadn't returned to her cheeks. She was not the girl she'd once been, full of life and excitement. Instead, she listened quietly to Cat's hopes, dreams, and fears, but offered very little in the way of opinions or stories of her own. It was as if she'd become an empty shell.

With Littlefinger sent away after his failed duel with Brandon Stark, and Edmure, Cat's younger brother, too young to do anything but play silly, childish games, Riverrun seemed too quiet. Still furious with her childhood companion for his foolish behaviour, and for leaving her so alone, Cat burned the one and only letter that Littlefinger wrote her.

Then came the snows. Everyone had been so certain that winter had been and gone that the blanket of white that covered the new leaves and grass seemed to subdue lord, knight, and servant alike. Hardly a smile was to be seen.

Winterfell had suffered the snows worse, and Lord Stark had written to say that the planned date for the joining of their houses would have to be postponed. Brandon had been snowed in at the house of Lord Ryswell of The Rills whilst taking their crannogman on a tour of the sights of the North.

But eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, a raven finally arrived telling her father that the wedding party was readying themselves to leave, and to expect them before the next new moon.

Cat felt so excited yet apprehensive, it was entirely possible that she might just explode.

~X~

**Another three parts of A Year in Westeros to come, each a different location/POV(s), or at least, that's the plan.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

**Okay, so the general consensus is that you want a Robert POV. This was going to be a Ned chapter, but the readers have spoken...**

~X~

Chapter Nineteen – A Year in Westeros, Part 2 – The Vale

Riding alongside Lord Arryn, Robert looked over his shoulder to see Ned still dawdling behind them, looking as if his mind was elsewhere.

Robert smiled to himself, hazarding a guess at where that might be. He was a dark horse, Ned Stark. Not only did his attention drift on a regular basis, his cheeks blushing, but at Harrenhal he'd heard whispers. Ashara Dayne had been seen going into the godswood with a Stark, she'd been seen sneaking into a Stark's quarters, and she wore a direwolf broach at the neck of her cloak.

Ned denied it of course. When Robert had asked him, using a vulgar gesture that he often used to punctuate tales of his own conquests, Ned's face had glowed like a slapped backside. He didn't know what Robb was talking about, he would never dishonour a lady in that way, and various other protestations of innocence.

That was just like Ned—too bloody honourable for his own good. At first, Robb had thought his friend finally becoming a man might loosen him up a little, but he was as uptight as ever. Jon Arryn had taught him well.

Robb looked across at his mentor. The journey home was going to be a dull one; the Lord of the Vale was keeping him on the same short leash he had been on since the final joust.

No more than one cup of ale with his meal, and Jon by his side almost every waking moment of the day. He was scared his wayward ward might find himself in his cups and let out what he truly felt about the crown prince's behaviour.

Something bubbled up inside Robert, and he wished he was back in the melee with his hammer, not halfway back to the Eeyrie.

He'd been impressive, some had said. He had skill—a fierce warrior in the making. The compliments meant nothing to the young Lord Baratheon.

The real reason he'd performed the way he had wasn't just because he was unusually sober, but because every man he came up against had worn the face of Rhaegar Targaryen in his mind. Swinging his war hammer in their direction had felt good, unleashing the fury he felt within.

There was no doubt about it, Lyanna truly was the queen of love and beauty of the tourney, but if it had been any other man that had handed the woman Robert loved that crown, he would have killed him on the spot. But it was the king's son, first in line to the throne, so instead Robert had to keep his mouth shut and bear it.

Lord Arryn was right, Robert accepted, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. There would be no opportunity for Robert to let it all out until he was back at the roof of the world, with leagues and leagues separating him from the source of his anger.

"This man will be your king someday. A good lord knows when to let a royal slight wash over him, lest he find his head decorating a spike in King's Landing," Jon said. He was right—he was always right.

Robb couldn't help but play the moment over again in his mind. At least Lyanna had flushed and not simpered like most girls would have. She had seemed embarrassed by it.

It had always seemed to Robert that Rhaegar must have prefer the company of males—what with his harp, his company of well-spoken friends who were a little too clean and well-dressed to be true men, and the way he was faithful to his waif of a wife when almost every girl in the kingdom's eyes twinkled when he walked by.

Well, now Robert knew otherwise. One thing was for certain, not for all the gold and land in the kingdom would he be taking Lyanna to King's Landing once they were married.

Holier than thou Prince Rhaegar had tarnished his image—maybe he was less the knight in shining armour everyone held him up to be, and more like his father once it came to it. The king had his knives out for the Starks, that was for sure. Even Robert had been able to see that, the way he looked when Benjen and Lyanna had been accused.

Lyanna as the Knight of the Laughing Tree...Robert had his usual physical response to the idea.

Imprisoned in his room of a night, Robert had spent too many hours imagining Lyanna, naked underneath the patchwork armour. Later the armour had become polished bronze, and much more form fitting, but Lyanna's state of undress beneath it was the same.

When he got back to the Vale, Robert had already decided that he was going to find himself a brunette whore, and take some armour with him to dress her up in. Otherwise, every time he heard the word jousting and mystery knight, he'd look as if he was concealing a lance in his pants.

~X~

If ever Robb wanted to torture a man to death, he would without a doubt send him to Lord Arryn. He wanted a piece of writing, at least a full length of parchment, on whatever subject his wards chose.

Robert couldn't see the point—when he finally took his place at Storm's End he'd have a maester to do this for him. Still, Jon would find some way to explain why this was absolutely necessary, and sometimes it was less painful to comply than face the lecture.

With a loud sigh, Robert looked at the few paragraphs he'd written on the fighting style of the dothraki horselords across the sea. What he had done so far seemed short compared to the length of parchment remaining.

"Psst," he hissed to Ned across the table, whispering even though Lord Arryn had long since left the room. Ned looked up.

Robert nodded in the direction of his friend's parchment. "What are you writing about?"

"Never you mind," was the reply.

Smiling, Robert pulled the sheet out from under Ned's quill to look for himself. Getting to his feet immediately, Robb backed away, predicting correctly that Ned would do the same.

"What do we have here? I didn't know you were a poet, Ned."

"Give it here." Ned tried to make a grab for his work, but Robert held it away from him, before turning his back and trying to read a snippet more.

"Lips of palest pink and violet eyes, from my love's mouth weeps the slightest of sighs..."

"Robb..." Ned said sternly and tried for his parchment once more.

"I didn't think you had it in you. She put her hand _where_?" Robert said mischievously, and then held the poem high in the air, to keep it just out of Ned's reach.

Frustrated, Ned and Robb tussled, until Rob turned suddenly and felt the parchment torn from his grasp. Looking around, he saw that a short spear now pinned the poem to a wooden door.

"Seven hells," Robb cursed, and breathing heavily he looked back at his friend who was doing the same, standing by a rack of ornamental spears.

After a few moments of intense eye contact, Robert laughed. "Here, you can have it back. It isn't worth getting skewered over." He indicated the parchment with a tilt of his head. "Written from experience, is it?"

Ned grinned quietly, and the two of them were pulling the spear from the wood when Jon Arryn returned. For a moment, he gave them a look of exasperation, before walking over to join them.

"There's been a raven. Ned, your family has left Winterfell. They'll send word when they reach the Twins, and then we'll set off to join them in Riverrun." Jon looked up at the poem pinned against the wood. "I take it that means you are both done?"

Robb looked at his feet while Ned shook his head. Finally retrieving his work, the Stark boy went back to the table, and Robert reluctantly joined him, trying his hardest to concentrate on how dothraki would fare against Westerosi knights and castles.


	21. Chapter 21

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty One – A Year in Westeros, Part 3 – King's Landing

By the time the wagon containing his wife and children rolled into King's Landing, Rhaegar had realised that there was no convincing Elia that all that had happened with Lyanna Stark had been purely in the interest of protecting the identity of the two mystery knights.

Elia had never said a single accusatory word, but it was in the disappointed look in her eyes as they took breakfast together, the absence of a simple caress when she passed by, and the way she'd grown silent and withdrawn.

Once upon a time, Rhaegar would sit with his wife and discuss the discoveries of the day, the things that puzzled or excited him, and she would offer her opinions and advice. Now a wall of silence had grown between them, tall enough even to rival the walls of the Red Keep itself.

Out of frustration, Rhaegar no longer pleaded his case. Elia would only agree with all that he said, calmly and with a straight face, but there was something in the way she said that she believed him that told Rhaegar the damage had been already done.

She knew that her husband's obsession with prophecies consumed him, and Elia could also see that she wouldn't be the mother of his third child. It didn't matter that Rhaegar swore on all he held dear that he'd not touched the Stark girl in any inappropriate way. His princess believed in the prophecies as strongly as he did—in her eyes he had as good as impregnated Lyanna Stark already. That it had not happened at Harrenhal did not matter—fate had already planted the seed.

That did not have to be the way of things, Rhaegar told himself, but when he tried to prove to his wife that it need not come to pass, that she might still be the mother of his third child, she rejected him.

Sadness in her eyes, she'd whispered, "You know as well as the maesters that this body will never bear another child. To try might be the end of me. You may need your three, but I have my two, and they need a mother's love. " Since then the doors to her chambers were firmly locked of a night.

More and more, Rhaegar found himself sleeping with his face on a book, surrounded by candles that were on the verge of burning down to nothing but a gnarled heap of wax.

He could not even take comfort in his innocence, as the guilt of the slight he'd given his wife weighed heavy, and what was more, he was very aware that Lyanna was not only exceptionally bold and brave but very fair indeed.

During the darker days, when Rhaegar missed his wife's company the most, he often found himself recalling the day he'd watched the mystery knight remove her armour, and how he'd been unable to turn away from her state of undress as she climbed back into her gown. Or when she'd stumbled into his arms under the laughing tree shield, and for the briefest of moments it felt as though they would kiss.

No, he wasn't innocent, Rhaegar decided. The horse stabled below was testament to that. Though Direwolf was far from being the strongest or the swiftest beast he owned, she was now his mount of choice. She was an intelligent animal and seemed to know his mind—he could see now why she had made a good tourney horse.

Still, keeping her had been unwise, and though no one would recognise her now she was decked in Targaryen livery rather than the mismatched pieces belonging to Harrenhal's mystery knight, her name was incriminating for other reasons. Whenever he asked for Direwolf to be saddled up, eyebrows would raise, though no one ever said what was on their mind. Everyone knew the sigil of the Starks of Winterfell.

He had made a bad move, sacrificing the needs of his country and of his family to give a dubious honour to a beautiful young girl, whose deeds he could not explain publically. It was a blemish on his honour that he would have to bear for a long time, as this was kind of tale that many a bard liked make a song of.

The dream of the direwolf knight in ice armour took on a new meaning. The wolf knight and dragon Rhaegar had destroyed each other, but what of the rose growing in the snow, blooming amongst the tangle of ribs and thigh bones? Was this how it was meant to be?

There are greater things to consider than a little personal discomfort, Rhaegar told himself. The dragon had three heads...and any child of Lyanna Stark would be strong and fierce.

Was he trying to convince himself that Lyanna would be the mother of the third dragon just to satisfy his own desires, or was this truly what fate had decided?

Prince or not, he doubted that Lord Stark would break the betrothal to Lord Baratheon to give his daughter's hand to a man who was already married with heirs. Polygamy had not been practised by his family for many years, and he doubted that its sudden reintroduction would make any friends, especially not in Dorne or amongst Elia's family. Neither would Storm's End bear the slight well.

The matter played on Rhaegar's mind constantly, and as distracted as he was, he intervened too late when Tywin Lannister resigned his position as Hand of the King. Even in the final hours before his departure, Rhaegar had tried to convince him to stay, but his father had set Tywin's mind to stone.

Jaime Lannister, the young boy in white, could not inherit Casterly Rock now that he had joined the kingsguard. It left Tywin Lannister with only a daughter and a deformed son who he kept secreted away at his family's ancestral home out of sight, his wife having died in childbed.

Rhaegar's father paraded his new prize around King's Landing like a hunter with a stuffed lion's head—as symbol of his victory over the Hand that ruled his kingdoms for him for twenty years. Truth be told, it was all of Westeros that had lost that match.

At a council meeting, replacements had been discussed. Someone had suggested Lord Stark was a measured and competent man, and it had to be said that he was certainly the most capable of the names put forward.

At first, his father had begun with gentle mocking, suggesting that his son had already spent enough time wooing his friends in the north, and that maybe the rest of Lyanna Stark's family wanted crowns of their own... not made of flowers. Growing more and more angry, King Aerys had started yelling that there was a conspiracy, that the Starks wished to help his son onto the throne before it was rightfully his, sweetening the deal with the promise of a young, healthy wife.

The meeting was adjourned with the king screaming that he would burn any traitor that dare suggest that Lord Stark or Prince Rhaegar should be Hand. In the end, King Aerys named Lord Owen Merryweather, an amiable man but a flatterer and a fool.

The thought of his father and such a man running the kingdoms filled Rhaegar with dread, and as such he threw himself into keeping the damage they caused to a minimum, giving himself a welcome distraction from his own domestic situation, though it amounted to the same net result—many nights sleeping with a pillow of parchment beneath his head.

Once such night, Rhaegar was pouring over copies of letters Maester Pycelle had seen fit to give him, just so the prince could "be aware" of his father's demands, and maybe "calm the waters" by sending a raven of his own.

His eyes finally growing heavy in the final hours before the dawn, he slumped forward, quill still in his hand, and for the first time in long months, dreams filled his mind.

He was sat at the council table, listening to the Hand and Master of Ships arguing over the costs of repairing the fleet versus the cost of building entirely new ships, when a rat ran onto the table. Rhaegar's hand darted out and he grabbed it, but no sooner had he done so before another three took its place. He called out for the guards to bring a dog and their swords, and they did, but for every rat that fell more appeared.

Still, the other men around the table went about their business as if they couldn't see the chaos around them, Rhaegar seemingly the only one concerned about the rats that swarmed over man and furniture alike. Maester Pycelle was rambling, telling an old tale of the day he first taught the prince to read, the rest of the council continued to debate the matter of the disrepair of the fleet, and his father picked up a candle, staring entranced at the flame for a while, before throwing it down on the tablecloth, setting both it and the rats on it alight.

It was only then that Rhaegar looked around and saw that the room had grown dark, becoming pitch black beyond the circle of orange flickering light created by the burning table.

Rhaegar felt his heart pound—though he could still see his fellow council members, he couldn't hear the noise they had been making only moments previous. It was as if the coming night had sucked all the light and sound from the world, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

Drawing his sword, Rhaegar felt the temperature drop, his own breath becoming white mist as it left his lips.

"I'm not afraid," he yelled. "I know what you are."

Hearing an insect like crackle, echoed by whispers that felt too sinister to be just the breeze, Rhaegar put his back to the table, to defend his father and the others even though they remained blissfully unaware of the coming danger.

A crow landed on the high back of his father's seat. It startled Rhaegar and caught his attention—with a second glance he counted three eyes.

"What good is knowing the danger if you're not ready to face it?" it said, and then cocked its head to the side. The bird paused a while before spreading its wings and flying to the corner of the room. Where it melted into the blackness, a door opened, almost blinding Rhaegar.

Pausing for a second, Rhaegar debated staying to defend the farce that was the council, continuing in the dark oblivious. The lure of the crow's door was too much, and sheathing his sword, Rhaegar ran to it.

Stepping through, the freezing dark was gone instantly, and instead he felt the warmth of the sun beating down on him. Looking around, he found himself on a hillside of rocks and red dust, and a little further ahead stood a single, simple tower, surrounded by a high wall, standing sentinel over the red hills around it.

Rhaegar made his way towards it, passing under the gate with its raised black iron portcullis. In the distance he heard the ring of sword on sword. Making his way in that direction, his path weaved around raised stone flower beds, alive with roses of many different types and colours.

Around the far side of the tower, he came across two knights sparring in an open courtyard, enthusiastically trying to outdo the other with speed and swordsmanship. Rhaegar paused a while to watch the exchange, as both seemed to be skilled. The realm will need many good fighters, once the long night arrives, Rhaegar thought, remembering the dark council room.

The shorter knight, wearing highly polished armour that flashed and glittered like ice, removed their helm, and Rhaegar was shocked to see a flushed and smiling Lyanna Stark, her dark hair cascading over the glistening armour.

With a feeling of dread, Rhaegar looked over at the other knight, only now recognising the black armour decorated with rubies. Before his helm was unfastened, he knew the face that was hidden beneath. It felt unnatural to see himself as if he was looking at another, watching as dream Rhaegar drew close to dream Lyanna, tilting her chin and lowering his head for a kiss.

Once they broke apart, dream Lyanna laughed and said, "Is the maiden meant to kiss the dragon in this tale?" Dream Rhaegar's only reply was to initiate a much more heated embrace.

Horrified, Prince Rhaegar looked on, half reminding himself that this was only a dream and that this would never come to pass, half longing for such seclusion and simple affection as he was witnessing that it almost overwhelmed him.

A raven flew out of one of the topmost windows, settling on nearby stables and cawing for attention before flying into the door at the base of the tower. Wanting to escape the scene unfolding before him, Rhaegar followed, stepping into the dark once more.

Inside, a winding stair curled upwards, doors opening off it on the right. The first door opened by itself once he passed by. Unable to contain his curiosity, Rhaegar saw a riverbank, peaceful until two knights burst through the trees, half stumbling into the flow, water up to the knee joints in their armour. Both seemed weary, as if their battle had been raging for some time.

For a moment, Rhaegar thought something seemed familiar, but his viewing was interrupted by the insistent cawing of the three-eyed raven on a window sill just a short way up the stair. Rhaegar continued his ascent.

The next door on the route opened, and inside Rhaegar saw the throne room he knew so well, only sat on the iron throne was a teenage boy, his hair white and eyes purple. He wore well-used gold armour, and on his head sat a thick golden circle, decorated with dragon scales and rubies. Rhaegar wondered if he had seen a similar crown once when he was younger, belonging to a old Targaryen king.

By the boy king's side sat a dark-haired woman, older than him but beautiful, dressed in Dornish fashion and wearing a thin circlet of gold and rubies, complementing the king's. The prince wondered whether he might be watching his own children, Aegon and Rhaenys. To the other side of the throne sat one of Rhaegar's friends, Ser Jon Connington, though he had now grown old and haggard, his once red hair dusted with grey.

The boy got to his feet, his voice ringing out clear and confident, the surrounding courtiers seemingly already pleased with what he said before he'd even finished. This new king was popular.

"The realm has bled but the throne now belongs to its rightful owner. Like every other person in Westeros, I'm tired of fighting. It is time for peace." The boy king, Aegon so it seemed, raised his hand to stop the murmurs.

"I promise that, like my father would have were he here today, to find a way to provide food and shelter for all of my people. The harvest has been and gone, stores looted and farmland razed to the ground. The only way we will survive the coming winter will be to work together as one—no more fighting—so I ask all kingdoms to send a representative..."

The raven called again for him to continue upwards, and reluctantly Rhaegar pulled himself away, wondering what it was that he had just witnessed. It was a sudden drop in temperature that stopped his thoughts in his tracks.

Pausing, he looked at the raven, who cawed and flew a little further away as if asking him to carry on.

Gripping the hilt of his sword in readiness, Rhaegar found a door shrouded in darkness at the very top of the tower, the winding staircase coming to an end. Fearful as to what he would find, Rhaegar slowly pushed the door open, finding a snowy wood of pine trees at night.

After looking through for a moment, Rhaegar stepped forward, drawing his sword and looking around. The wintery scene chilled him to the bone, and not just through the icy weather.

Through the trees ahead, he could see the flicker of a campfire, and instinctively made his way, looking around for the escape of the tower door but finding that it no longer existed.

As his boots crunched a trail towards the light, he thought that he heard the voices on the wind once more in the distance. Beyond the Wall? he thought, judging by his surroundings. That was where the Others would rise. Who would dare make camp and so brazenly burn a fire here and now? Rhaegar asked himself.

For a second, the prince thought he caught a glimpse of a black figure riding a stag, but whatever it was disappeared quickly.

Apprehensively, wondering whether this was still a dream or whether he truly had been transported to another place through the raven's door, he entered the clearing. In a circle of weirwood trees, dark, wine-coloured leaves littering the white snow, he saw a dark, cloaked figure crouching near the fire. As Rhaegar approached, the man got to his feet, aware of his presence yet he not turning to face him.

Glancing at the fire, Rhaegar then realised it wasn't a log that was burning, but a dark sword, flaming despite being stuck in a snow drift, the snow not melting but streams of red flowing from where the sword rose from it.

The dark figure turned finally, and Rhaegar looked at the face, wondering if it was familiar. A young man of the night's watch, it seemed, judging by his all black attire. He said nothing, only stared at Rhaegar with weary eyes.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Rhaegar asked, but ceased his questioning the moment he saw that the boy had been weeping. Amongst the tears, Rhaegar finally saw that the boy's eyes were red, the unnatural colour bright enough that when it reflected the flaming sword they almost glowed.

With an expression of anguish, the man in black looked at the snow drift, now surrounded in pools of burgundy, and then spoke with a northern accent.

"_Night gathers, and now my watch begins.  
>It shall not end with my death.<br>I shall take no wife,  
>Hold no lands,<br>Father no children.  
>I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.<br>I shall live and die at my post._

_I am the sword in the darkness.  
>I am the watcher on the walls.<br>I am the fire that burns against the cold,  
>The light that brings the dawn,<br>The horn that wakes the sleepers,  
>The shield that guards the realms of men.<em>

_I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch,  
>For this night and all nights to come."<em>

Rhaegar listened to the man repeat the words of the oath that recruits took when they officially became men of the Night's Watch, though they seemed subtly different from what he recalled. Approaching, he looked at the flaming sword, wondering how it burned. Could it be that the chosen one, the prince that was promised, Azor Ahai, the saviour of human kind, or whatever you wished to name him, would actually be a simple man guarding the Wall in the North?

This boy is of noble birth, the prince realised as he looked at the good quality of black leather beneath the old black cloak. The burning sword protruding from the red and white drift was a blade of Valyrian steel, Rhaegar realised, seeing the familiar shade and the pattern where the metal had been worked and folded many times. Not a cheap blade lightly given. At the end of the hilt flames licked over a stone wolf's head, neither blackening or damaging it.

"You're a Stark!"

The Night's Watchman shook his head. "No, I am Lord Snow."

Snow—a name given to bastards born in the north. The raven cawed, and without warning, Rhaegar was back in his room. It took a few seconds for the veil of sleep to lift and for the prince to register the insistent knocking on the door.

Getting to his feet and rubbing his eyes, he found a frantic Ser Arthur Dayne, his face almost as white as his kings guard cloak.

"Come quick—your father is in Elia's quarters. He has her and he's threatening to burn her!"

"Elia?" Feeling a wash of cold dread flow over him, the prince grabbed his sword belt, fastening it as he left the room.

"No, no," Arthur shook his head. "Ashara." He then sprinted away down the corridor, Rhaegar following close behind.

They heard shouts as soon as they drew near to Elia's rooms. Oswell Whent looked sick standing guard outside, but relaxed into relief as Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar arrived, falling into line behind them.

"What is this?" Rhaegar looked around the room. Women and girls were crowded in one corner, Elia holding Aegon to her chest, and at her feet one of her ladies-in-waiting had fallen to the ground, her lip bloody and a companion crouching beside, holding her tight. In the centre of the room, King Aerys had a girl with hair as white as his own, and was holding her awkwardly by the arm. On either side of him stood Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jaime Lannister of the kingsguard, their eyes pleading with the prince to diffuse the situation.

"What is this?" the king yelled. "A Stark spy in our very midst. One of your wife's ladies-in-waiting, no less." He pushed the blonde girl forward—Ashara Dayne, younger sister of Rhaegar's friend, Ser Arthur Dayne. "Or maybe you were aware of it?"

Rhaegar caught her before she could stumble forward, and she clutched him tightly. Her eyes were puffy and red, still wet with tears.

"A spy, father? For the Starks? Why would you think that?"

The king pointed a gnarled finger in Rhaegar's direction. "Don't think I don't know that you have them in your pocket. No doubt you placed her here with your wife on purpose. To poison the princess to make way for a new wife, I dare say."

"You wrong me. You wrong the girl. There is no plot by the Starks."

"I am right!" the king screeched, sweat rolling down his brow making him seem almost feverish. "You mock me by claiming otherwise. I know what you call that horse of yours. Direwolf—the sigil of House Stark—parading it under my nose." The king stepped forward, his accusing finger still pointed at his son. "And this—"

He made a grab for Ashara before anyone could react, reaching for her neck. Before the prince could pull him away, the king had the broach fastening Ashara's cloak in his hands. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the ground.

Ashara sobbed while everyone else stared open-mouthed or gasped. Now it was no longer concealed, the way her stomach protruded at odds with her otherwise tiny frame.

Could it be that Brandon Stark's younger brother wasn't so noble the second time around? With the knowledge of who was the likely father, Rhaegar was the first to recover.

"Maybe it wasn't the Starks that placed her here. Maybe it was Tywin Lannister," he suggested in a soothing voice.

"Tywin Lannister?" The king's brow furrowed.

"The Daynes call House Martell their liege lord. When you slighted Lord Tywin by marrying me to Elia, you gained the allegiance of Dorne. Maybe he means for you lose them? Maybe even turn members of your own kings guard against you? Ser Arthur here is Lady Ashara's brother."

This new conspiracy intrigued King Aerys, who suddenly became quiet and thoughtful. Yet the words he whispered were still, "Burn her."

"If we burn her, then we lose Dorne. Imagine how Tywin Lannister will laugh..." Rhaegar spoke quietly, giving the king time to form a mental picture. "No, we must frustrate his plans."

"How do we do put an end to this mischief without losing Dorne?" His father's voice was almost reasonable.

Rhaegar gently took the direwolf broach from the king's hands. "We send Lady Ashara back to Starfall in disgrace. Then we find out who it was that put the child in her belly and promise to make them marry her."

"Yes..." Aerys agreed. "And if they will not or cannot, we burn them. It must be that Stark, the middle son. He danced with her at Harrenhal the whole night."

Rhaegar passed the broach back to Ser Arthur Dayne, who picked up his sister's cloak and wrapped her in it.

"I will accompany Lady Ashara myself, to make sure Lord Dayne doesn't take offence by the fact this happened while his daughter was under your care."

Placated, Ser Gerold and Ser Jaime followed the king from Elia's quarters, leaving those within to finally exhale in relief.

Rhaegar turned to Ser Arthur; the colour had returned to his face, though this time it was an angry red as he looked at his pregnant sister. Rhaegar quickly counted the months since Harrenhal in his head to be sure.

"We should leave tonight. Help your sister pack her things. We will take Elia's wagon as we may not make it to Dorne before the baby arrives." Rhaegar then approached his wife. "I may be gone some time. By the time I travel to Starfall in the south and then Winterfell in the north, it might be some months."

"I will expect you when you return, my prince," his wife answered cooly. "I am not your keeper." I know you will linger at Winterfell, her tone said, and I know why.

Kissing baby Aegon's forehead, he then did the same to his wife, before Rhaenys appeared from behind the skirts of one of his wife's ladies.

"Take me with you, Daddy," she squealed. "I don't want to stay here with Grandfather. He scares me!"

Rhaegar ruffled her dark hair. "If I took you with me it would break your mother's heart. You must promise me you will stay and help her with your little brother."

With a pout Rhaenys promised.

Later that evening, a small caravan of guards surrounding Elia's wagon made its way from the Red Keep, and through the streets of King's Landing. Ahead of the creaking wooden structure, containing Ashara and a midwife, Wylla, rode the prince, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent.

It was early evening the following day when they made their first camp. Over dinner in the prince's expansive tent, Rhaegar and his kings guard discussed their route while Lady Ashara eagerly ate the fayre in front of her. Now she was dressed in a way that befitted her condition, she seemed ready to birth her child at any moment.

When the prince said that he would see Lady Ashara settled at Starfall before riding for Winterfell, where he would say that the king demanded that Eddard Stark wed the mother of his child in order to placate the Daynes, Ashara suddenly spoke up.

"Eddard Stark is not the father of my child," she said clearly.

All eyes settled on her until the confused prince asked, "Then who..."

"Brandon Stark," Ashara whispered quietly, her shame and hurt apparent.

"But he's betrothed to one of Hoster Tully's daughters," Arthur cried.

"And due to be married any time now. My father had received an invitation to Riverrun the last time he wrote me," Ser Oswell stated.

"If you break the betrothal then you simply upset the Tullys to placate my family." Arthur scratched his head. "What now?"

Prince Rhaegar thought hard. "We will still request that Eddard marry Ashara, to make amends for his older brother's actions."

"No," Ashara disagreed strongly. "He is a good man—kind, honest, and noble. He shouldn't have to suffer for how Brandon treated me."

"Suffer?" Arthur got to his feet until Ser Oswell calmed him down. "Dozens of men would kill to marry you."

"Maybe once," Ashara said wistfully, "but do you really believe we left King's Landing before anyone heard the story? I'm a fallen woman."

"Eddard Stark danced with you at Harrenhal—"

"I don't want to marry anyone." Ashara's loud voice filled the tent. "Not Eddard Stark or anyone else who might take pity on me. The man I want can't and won't have me, so I will be satisfied with the piece of him that he left me with."

Everyone stared as her hands caressed her stomach, her face determined.

Prince Rhaegar waved the matter away and continued with his supper. He was exhausted after two nights of poor sleep, and keen to retire to his bed. If Lady Ashara was determined not to marry, then so be it, if her parents agreed. He wouldn't force the matter. No doubt the king would have some new insult irking him by the time he returned to King's Landing.

They made it as far as the Red Mountains before it seemed that Ashara was imminent to give birth.

"There's an old lookout tower not far from here," Ser Arthur said to the Prince. "You might remember it. We stayed there once when we were boys. It might be a good place to wait."

Prince Rhaegar nodded, and then froze as a moment of recognition hit him. A single tower overlooking rocky red mountains, surrounded by a wall containing a garden of raised stone flower beds. A dream that he'd spent so many hours contemplating during the journey suddenly burst into life.


	22. Chapter 22

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Two – A Year in Westeros, Part 4 – The North

"But father..."

"Not another word, Ben." Lord Stark paused, apprehensively turning to face his youngest son with his pleading puppy eyes. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know that."

Benjen looked as if his face was about to crumble. Feeling himself weaken, Lord Rickard patted him on the head and turned away. As he walked out into the courtyard he called out, "Winterfell is yours until we return. Make sure we find it in one piece."

When winter had decided that it wasn't quite ready to leave, his great uncle, old Ser Rickon, had succumbed to a chill. Though the elderly man had lost most of his sight, he hadn't lost his wits, and Rickard was always more than comfortable with their ancestral home in his capable hands.

Now he had the hard choice of who to leave in charge.

It had to be a Stark—a rule set down so long ago no one really knew how it originated. The only true Starks left were himself, his heir Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, or Benjen.

Brandon was the one being married, and Eddard had returned to the Vale. If only his second son had been here, he would have been just as solid and dependable as Old Rickon had. In fact, he would trust Eddard with the running of Winterfell even more than the son it would eventually fall to. It made Rickard guilty to think that way.

With Eddard too far away, it made much more sense to meet him in the Riverlands for the wedding. That left Lyanna or Benjen, both of whom would not be happy at being left behind.

In the end, he'd decided to take his daughter and leave the youngest of his children in the capable hands of Maester Walys, watching over the Stark family lands and interests. He told himself he'd chosen Lyanna because she needed to build bridges with Lord Robert, her betrothed, but he knew deep down that it was because he couldn't refuse her, and that she was as likely to listen to Maester Walys' words of wisdom as was the wind.

Like the wind...that was exactly how Lyanna seemed. Sometimes soft and gentle, but unpredictable, wild, and with a tendency to turn and blow a gale without warning. Was her temperament, and Brandon's, his fault through his inability to curb the whims of his offspring, or borne from their Stark wolf's blood?

Lady of Storm's End—a fitting future title if ever there was one. Would being a wife and mother calm her, or would there be no end to the hurricane that was Lyanna Stark?

Typically, the Starks married amongst the families of the North. It had been the Maester that had first planted the seed of looking further south for marriage alliances. Lord Rickard had heard whispers that indicated the northern noble families saw this as ambition to further his reach; the truth was that he wanted to seek out suitable husbands and wives for his wilful children.

Brandon and Lyanna, as easy on the eye as they were, would not be easy for their spouses to live with.

For Brandon he'd chosen a daughter of a fellow great lord—Lord Hoster Tully. Even Brandon should have the sense not to slight such a man. It was also said that Catelyn was pretty—essential if she was to keep Brandon's attention—and sensible for a girl of her age.

Lord Rickard shook his head as he remembered the angry letter Lord Rodrik had sent with regard his eldest daughter, Barbrey. The sooner Brandon was wed the better. Family, duty, honour were the words of House Tully. Lord Rickard hoped his heir might take them on board.

The procession rolled through the gates, snaking over the rolling hills of mud and grass that constituted the main road into Winterfell in springtime. Slow going, but it was better than trying to travel through thick drifts of snow. It had been the weather that had delayed the happy event as long as it had.

Carts, wagons, soldiers on foot, and those keen to speak to their Lord stayed back once they reached the King's Road, and Rickard watched Lyanna, Brandon, and Brandon's close friends disappear ahead of them.

Lord Rickard wondered how many days it would take for them to get bored and ride off, leaving the slower traffic far behind.

Three days, it was, before Brandon and his companions raced away, and naturally Lyanna followed. Or was it Lyanna that had instigated the separation and Brandon joining her? All their father could see was the small group breaking away at the front of the train, far in the distance.

Thinking for a moment, Rickard signalled one of his men.

"My lord," the knight said with a respectful nod of his head.

Rickard pointed in the distance. "Take some riders and follow my daughter." As the knight agreed, the lord quickly added, "Make sure they are quick—she won't be happy about the company. Even if she commands you to leave, my orders are that you shouldn't leave her side."

"Yes, my lord. I understand."

With a deep sigh, Lord Stark held back to watch the knight gather nine other horseman together, quickly take some supplies, and then gallop across the soft earth where his children had rode not long before.

Please gods, Rickard thought, let me get Brandon to Riverrun before he or his sister create more trouble.

Startled, Rickard's prayer was interrupted when a raven briefly landed on the roof of a nearby wagon, and then took flight again, heading north. As it did so, the aging Warden of the North felt a squeezing pain in the centre of his chest. Struggling for breath for a moment, he was pleased when the invisible grip relaxed.

Sucking air into his lungs, he found Torghen Flint looking straight at him.

"Lord Stark, are you well?"

Rickard managed a smile. "Aye. Children...they give me indigestion."

Torghen laughed and handed over a wineskin, which his liege lord gratefully took. He had never been one for drinking, but he hoped the bitter red liquid might away the lingering soreness before slowly rejoining the snake of people, horses, and wagons.


	23. Chapter 23

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Three – The Stag Party

Howland was glad to climb down from his horse at the end of the day. He'd been travelling with Brandon for a number of months now—from northern castle to northern castle—but he'd never endured a day like the day he'd just faced.

Only just becoming accustomed to spending so much time in the saddle, the pace set by the group had been difficult. It had made him wish that he'd decided to stay in Winterfell with Benjen instead.

Tieing up his horse, he followed the group of Brandon's close friends, Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, a Mallister, and the popular Elbert Arryn of the Vale.

When they'd departed the main caravan, there had been only around fifty riders, but every day guards, servants, caught up while they made camp. Howland wouldn't be surprised if there was well over three hundred persons travelling with them now. And the larger the party got, the better provided they became. As they left the main procession further behind and got closer to Riverrun, the more festive the atmosphere became, and every night was a feast, getting drunker and bawdier every time.

Tentatively, Howland set up the small tent he'd been given. Luckily, a number of fellows whose name he didn't know saw his struggles and came to his assistance, and he had a little time in the dying light to find a few plants to crush and rub on his aching muscles.

Leaf-scented and feeling a little better, he joined many of the others at the largest campfire and soon found a flagon of ale in his hand, a capon leg in the other. As he ate, Lyanna Stark came and sat down next to him.

He gave a wide smile and offered her some ale, but she refused.

"While all those who end up in their cups tonight are sleeping it off, I'm going for an early morning ride." Lyanna gave a knowing grin, signifying that she could tell Howland was already halfway there. "You should come with me and get to see a little more of the Riverlands—without a spinning head and a queasy belly."

"Maybe I will," Howland replied with a smile, but in his mind he was musing over how beautiful his female friend was...Lyanna, Lady of the Laughing Tree.

He was snapped out of his silent appreciation of Lyanna Stark when a young knight almost stumbled over him. The stranger took a seat between them, and after a brief pause he almost collapsed on Lyanna, clumsily trying to kiss her.

Suddenly the overly affectionate knight was pulled away, and there was a resounding crack as Brandon Stark's fist connected with his face.

Howland discovered to his dismay that his ale had been overturned, soaking his boots and the sleeves of his tunic. A jolly squire to his left soon handed him a wineskin to replace his loss, while Lyanna dabbed at him with his own cloak, and once he was righted, the knight was now wearing a pair of antlers on his head, facing Brandon who wore similar headwear...then they charged at one another to the cheers and laughs of the circle around them.

Lyanna muttered something under her breath about drunken fools, and after a quick rustle of Howland's hair, she stormed off.

Abandoned by his pretty companion, there was nothing left for the crannogman to do but to cheer as loud as the rest of them.

~X~

He was woken up when alternating shadow and light passed over his face, and when Howland opened his eyes, he saw a brown-haired girl fastening her dress.

Startled, Howland sat up, and regretted it instantly as his head spun, dizziness interlaced with small glimpses of what had happened after the mock stag fight.

Panicking, his eyes met the girls, who seemed amused.

"Don't look so worried. You didn't do anything—you were a perfect gentleman." Her brown eyes creased, her smile stretching wide, ruining her once pretty face by revealing crooked teeth stained red by chewing sour leaf.

Howland vaguely remembered being coaxed into admitting that he was still a maid during a drinking game, and how that had resulted in a purse and a girl who he now understood to be a camp follower being thrust upon him.

He got to his feet and stood awkwardly, wondering if he was supposed to offer to help lace her back up, and then he seemed puzzled by the fact that she needed lacing up in the first place.

The girl laughed. "Okay, maybe you did a little. Nothing of consequence I promise you." She finished dressing herself, and stopped to look at him. "Mostly you talked...and then you slept."

It came flooding back to Howland, who could now recall rambling about swamps, rivers, and green men, interspersed with a little kissing with his hand on the girl's breast. He then snapped out of his daze, realising that the camp follower was probably waiting for the purse he'd been given to pay for his bed companion.

Stammering his thanks for a pleasant evening, he was surprised when she seemed reluctant to take all the coins inside.

"It seems a little unfair. After all, we really didn't do much at all and—"

"Please, take it. I really did have a good time, and you're a lovely girl and..."

The red teeth reappeared. "I'll take the purse, but you're paying more than you owe." The girl looked thoughtful. "If ever you need a good meal and a place to stay, my sister owns a place nearby called the Crossroads Inn. What's your name, and I'll make sure they know it?"

"Howland. Howland Reed of Greywater Watch." He scratched his head, but then yelled, "Wait!" as the girl went to leave.

She paused and looked back.

"You know my name. I should know yours, too."

The strangely red teeth made another appearance. "Meera Heddle. Fare well, Howland Reed."

"Fare well, Meera. That's a pretty name."

One final grateful smile and she was gone. After a few moments to collect his thoughts and his stomach, then straighten his clothing, Howland decided to go see about finding some breakfast, seeing as he'd undoubtedly risen too late to join Lyanna's morning ride.

In return for a plate of burned bacon and boiled eggs he had to endure a chorus of jeers and bawdy jokes. Howland didn't know whether to tell them that he was as much a maid as he was the night before or not, so instead he just looked sheepish and bore it.

Before he'd finished, Brandon Stark had joined them, slapping Howland hard on the shoulder before sitting down and devouring his meal in half the time it took the crannogman to pick at his own and decide that his stomach could take no more.

After a brief retching session, he felt ready to attempt to take down his tent and face a crueller than most day in the saddle.


	24. Chapter 24

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Four – Choosing the Path

Laughing, Lyanna stretched out a lead ahead of the guard that tailed her like a bad stench. Her father had sent them, ordered them to follow his command to stay with her at all costs.

In the beginning it had frustrated and annoyed her, but today, galloping free throughout the gentle fields and woods of the Riverlands, it provided amusement. Pausing on a small hill, she looked back to see them following in the distance, slowed down by their heavy armour and inferior horsemanship.

I feel free, Lyanna thought, and smiled as she urged her horse to fly through the wheat toward another wooded area just ahead. She weaved through the trees, wondering whether her father's men would be able to keep up, until suddenly Lyanna pulled on her reins, bringing her mount to an abrupt halt.

Inadvertently, she had stumbled upon a small encampment of knights and armed men. As her heart thudded in her ears, and almost all of the men stopped and looked back at her, she looked for a sigil, colours, anything to say that this was just a heavily guarded party heading toward her brother's wedding.

She found a griffin, skulls and lips, plain white shields and cloaks, and most prominently, a three-headed red dragon on black.

Her breath caught, hoping it would be Prince Rhaegar. The gods knew that should it be the king, who had shown a definite dislike for her family, or some other royal who had no reason to like her after Harrenhal, then she might be in some considerable trouble.

Her horse grew skittish as Targaryen soldiers surrounded it, and she noticed that the white cloaks, the elite kings guard, rushed over to where the black banners concentrated around a black and red tent.

Someone reached for her reins, and for Lyanna that was all the catalyst she needed to fire into action.

Her guards, ten of them, wouldn't be far but then they were tiny in number compared to those in the Targaryen camp.

Her horse pushing through the bodies that surrounded her, in her desperation to flee, Lyanna trampled one soldier underfoot. A hand caught her cloak, breaking the clasp and pulling it from her shoulders, but she didn't pause.

Ducking under low branches as she headed away from the camp and in the opposite direction of her own guards, Lyanna hoped that if she could leave them all behind there might not be any trouble between Starks and royalists. One branch caught her unawares and caught on her cheek, stinging, and Lyanna knew it would draw blood.

Why were they here? Lyanna was certain Brandon wouldn't tolerate the prince at his wedding. Who else might her father or Lord Tully have invited?

_Unless_...

The wedding of Brandon to Catelyn Tully was no secret. It was obvious the area was going to be host to various Starks, and their friends and allies. Anyone wishing to encounter them would find it hard to miss the large procession coming down the King's Road.

Lyanna remembered how the king had declared the Knight of the Laughing Tree a traitor. Did he know? Had Rhaegar betrayed their secret? Had some armourer remembered Benjen buying junk plate and equipment from them?

Finally, Lyanna burst through the trees and found an open field. Riding like she never had before, the grass rushing by under her horse's hooves, she ventured a look behind. To her dismay she was being followed.

As she turned to look ahead, she saw a small black spot on a green hill in the distance. They were too far away to tell but perhaps they were the small group of Stark protectors that she should have stayed with. She turned her horse in their direction, praying to the gods that she was right to do so.

When the black spot began to move she told herself it was because they recognised her, and were coming to her assistance, but Lyanna's pursuers were swift and gaining little by little.

There was a stream flowing across the green expanse, blocking her way, and it was when she had to slow enough to allow her horse to find its footing amongst the stones and water that those behind her got close enough to shout her name.

With a sinking feeling she looked at the distance still separating her from her salvation, and saw that they were still too far. Instead she turned, hoping that well chosen words might buy her enough time.

The chasing party got closer, and Lyanna saw the rest of the encampment filter from the trees much more slowly, reminding her of just how outnumbered she was. Panting with the exertion of riding so hard, her brain whirling as she thought about how she could escape the situation.

A black knight, mounted on a brown horse draped in black and red, lifted his visor, and a half-second of relief flowed through Lyanna as she recognised Prince Rhaegar flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent of the kings guard.

"My lady. Please, we mean you no harm," the prince said as he rode closer, seemingly out of breath. "I only wish to speak with you."

Lyanna nodded and muttered, "My Prince," as she allowed her horse to retrace its way out of the stream onto the muddy embankment so she stood before the three figures looking down the slope at her.

Her cheeks had flushed through more than just the morning's exercise. Though he was very much garbed as the notable figure who won great jousting tourneys and sat by the king's side, there was enough of the boy in the brown cloak in Prince Rhaegar's face to remind her of that night...of the moment under the oak tree she'd not been able to forget since.

His horse grew close and she smiled as she recognised his mount...Direwolf, the horse she'd named. He had seen the recognition in his eyes and smiled back.

"I've been taking good care of her. She was an idea choice for Harrenhal." He patted the familiar mare's side.

"Yes, so it proved, but I can't take the credit for that. She was bought by my brother." Lyanna wondered where these pleasantries were headed. Had Rhaegar ridden north to help protect the Knight of the Laughing Tree again? Lyanna began to panic. What about Benjen, waiting in a half deserted Winterfell?

"He did well. I only wish I could have had the opportunity to congratulate him myself." The prince's face dropped. "It was regrettable that the Knight of the Laughing Tree couldn't compete on the final day...and it seems the reward I gave you for your efforts was a little unseemly."

"Yes," Lyanna whispered, remembering the crown that was almost rotted away back in her room. "But thank you. I understood what it meant. It was my prize for coming third in the tournament." More than once she'd allowed herself a few silly girlish moments where she had imagined that it had meant the handsome prince had miraculously fallen for her, but Lyanna had soon shaken the idea from her head.

It seemed that the moment only just dawned on Oswell Whent as he looked between Rhaegar and Lyanna. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, did not react at all. How many others knew the true identity of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and the prince's involvement in that tale?

"Good." Rhaegar gave her a serious look with his indigo eyes. "You fought bravely and earned it. I admire you both. You would make a fine knight...and your brother, Benjen, too."

Lyanna's brow furrowed as a sore point was probed. "Yes, he will."

The prince rode closer and held out something for Lyanna to take, wrapped in a soft, silk cloth. It was heavy and once she took it, she found a highly polished pair of gauntlets, more slender than most, and obviously made by a very fine armourer.

"For you—I had them made especially. Better than your previous set." The prince watched her inspecting his gift. "Lyanna, do you believe in prophecies?"

"I've never really thought about them," she replied, marvelling over the workmanship.

"What if I said you _will _train to be a knight?"

Shocked, Lyanna's grey eyes met his. "I would say that you've taken leave of your senses. I'm a girl, betrothed to be married. My father would never allow it."

Rhaegar's face was grim. "No, he would never allow it, and I know Lord Robert would not bear it well..." His gaze was intense. "But this is meant to be. You told me how you felt at Harrenhal and I've dreamed that it came true."

Lyanna gave an incredulous look and then looked across the way to the approaching guards, still some way off. "That I will just take off and leave my family behind? That's impossible."

"Maybe not if you had help. You're meant to come with me, Lyanna." Her name, he called her by her name. "I will train you and knight you myself, and buy you a set of real armour that matches. I know you can joust, and I know you'll be a credit to the fairer sex."

Lyanna said nothing and looked at the young man before her, in his ruby encrusted breast plate and jewelled scabbard by his side that no doubt contained a Valyrian steel blade.

If Lyanna had followed her dream to be a hedge knight when the idea first came to her, how long would it have been before she was raped and killed in some remote place, or before her father or Brandon found her and dragged her back to Winterfell to the wedding gown that awaited her. But, if she left with a prince, one guarded by the best men in all of Westeros, then how would her family be able to take her away?

It's what I've always wanted, she thought, and just for a second she allowed herself to visualise—Ser Lyanna Stark, if that was the correct title for a lady knight. Part of her smiled inside, yet she still hesitated.

"If it's what you want, come with me now. If you're not sure then you're free to go, but I doubt we'd ever get an opportunity like the one we chanced upon today."

Lyanna looked between the prince and her guards, her guards and then the prince. Internally, she raged war with herself over what she was going to decide.

After what felt like forever, Lyanna blurted out, "Yes, I will come."

"You must be certain. If we go now there's no turning back."

"Yes," Lyanna said more forcibly, and then Rhaegar whirled his horse around.

"Oswell—tell Ser Richard to take my men and delay the Stark guards. Then they're to ride straight for King's Landing as planned. We will wait for you to catch us up near the stoney hill we paused at yesterday. If you're not there by evening we'll assume something has happened and ride straight on to Dorne—you know where."

"Yes, my prince." Ser Oswell rode across the field towards the knight of skulls and kisses and the waiting soldiers.

"Arthur, you stay with me." Rhaegar positioned his horse, which twitched anxiously, sensing the sudden urgency, alongside Lyanna. "We ride fast and stop as little as possible. We have a long way to go. Are you still sure?"

His eyes searched hers, and for a while Lyanna wondered whether she might have fallen asleep and be dreaming, but no, this was really happening. She really was riding off with the crown prince to train to be a knight, defying her family and all expections of how a high born girl should behave.

"Yes," she said clearly. "I've never been more ready."

The prince gave a rare smile, and after the briefest of looks back at the field to watch Targaryen soldiers get into position, facing the oncoming small band of northmen, Lyanna Stark took off, riding between the black knight, Prince Rhaegar, and his white-cloaked friend.


	25. Chapter 25

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Five – Consquences

From the top of the swaying tree, Howland could see for miles around, though the light was beginning to fade. Having scaled a number of trees already today and seen nothing, Howland was surprised to see a small group of horsemen far in the distance and moving quickly.

Squinting, he tried to make out their banners...or even better a blue dress and a dark braid catching the wind. They were too far away to make out, but Howland decided to climb down anyway to give Brandon ample warning before they arrived, whoever they were.

Deftly making his way back down the trunk, instinctively finding a foothold on the next bough or limb until he dropped to the ground, he startled the knights and soldiers waiting for him underneath.

"Horsemen heading this way," Howland said, slightly out of breath but pointing in the relevant direction.

"Was she with them?" Brandon barked, and for a second Howland backed away.

"I don't know. They were too far away to see, but they were riding in this direction."

Howland wished that he had drank a little less last night, and hadn't lain in too long to join Lyanna on her morning ride. For all he told himself that this was just the northern maiden's nature, and that she was probably just having a lark leading her father's men a merry dance, he couldn't help feel that she had been missing a little too long.

If Howland felt regretful and concerned, then Lyanna's older brother was dealing with his worry in a different way. He paced up and down, looking like some kind of caged beast, spooked and dangerous. Also, the mood of the camp was much more sombre. Fires were being lit and the smell of food being prepared hung in the air, but there was no laughing or frivolity, and barely a word was spoken around Brandon lest he turn and snarl.

"I can't stand here and wait for them to come to me," Brandon said to the group. "Howland, lead us out to meet them. If my sister thinks this was sport she's going to spend the rest of the journey on a leash."

Things became chaotic as numerous knights and young lordlings mounted their horses. After taking a few moments to get his bearings, predicting how much further the riders would have travelled and their most likely route, Howland rode at the head of the party, Brandon Stark on his right flank.

Though the sky was a picturesque mix of blue, pink, and orange light, those at ground level found it growing darker and torches were lit. Finally, horses and men upon them could be seen in the distance, and the torches alerted them to the search party like a beacon.

Squinting, Howland saw that there was no woman or girl amongst them, and his heart sank. He became even more anxious when he saw that the mounted soldiers were bloodied, and they were indeed Lord Rickard's guards sent to protect his daughter.

They finally drew close enough to speak.

"Ser Brandon..." the knight riding at the front of the group said, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Brandon rode forward. "My sister—where is she? What happened?"

Still gasping the knight squeezed out, "This morning we were following your sister...she lost us, as usual. She went into some woods, and when she came back out of them on the other side, she was being chased—"

"Who? Who was chasing her?" Brandon's horse was now side by side with the weary knight. And Howland couldn't help but notice the Stark guard's muddy armour and the blood spatters on his face.

"Targaryens, Ser. Your sister was riding fast—like the wind—but the prince and his kings guard caught her at a ford." The man swallowed hard. "We tried to get to her, but before we could, they'd ridden off with her...and sent his men to face us."

"And so you ran away and left her? The girl my father sent you to protect."

"No, Ser." The knight grimaced and shook his head. "Half of us are still lying on that field. There were too many, too well prepared. It was like an ambush. If by some miracle one or two of us had fought through, then we'd have to catch them...and the prince had the Sword of the Morning with him. I thought it best if we pulled back and found you, found more men."

Brandon took a second to think, and then turned to the muddy knight. "Which way did they go?"

"South. At least, that was the way they were headed when I lost sight of them."

Elbert Arryn spoke up. "Do we follow them in the dark and risk missing their trail?"

"They already have a day's ride on us," another companion added, "and it seems that there are armed Targaryens who will want to stop us along the way."

Bickering and mumbling increased in volume, culminating in Brandon yelling, "Enough!" A silence fell.

"I want every armed man that I can gather ready to travel in two hours. I'll ride them down all the way to King's Landing if I have to."

There was a moment of pause before people fired into action, heading back toward the camp with shouts and commands. Howland went to join them, to collect his meagre belongings and join the search for Lyanna, but he was halted by Brandon calling his name and rode back.

"I need you to do a job for me," Brandon said solemnly. "I can imagine father is nearing the Neck by now, and I don't think anyone will be able to traverse it quicker than you. I need you to take a message for me."

For a moment, Howland wanted to object. He wanted to say that the right place for him to be was the rush south with the rescue party, but Brandon was right. No one else would reach Lord Stark quicker than he would if they'd reached the swamps he'd grown up in. Still, it felt like a betrayal to abandon the girl who'd once fought off three squires to protect him when he'd been little more than a total stranger.

"Yes. What is the message?"

"I need you to tell my father what happened here today—take these men just in case you meet any Targaryens on the way, and they will be able to give him a firsthand account." Howland nodded his understanding of what Brandon was saying. "And I want you to tell him that I couldn't abide the thought of going to Riverrun, and wedding and bedding my new wife, knowing that Rhaegar was raping my sister. I will deal with it and return, but only once I have Lyanna."

Howland stared back as the gravity of the situation hit him. Ser Brandon Stark had ridden against Rhaegar Targaryen before, and he remembered how that had ended—Brandon had been bedridden for days after. This was no tourney. Plus, the prince had Lyanna and knew that she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Though he had helped them at the tournament, maybe the prince had now decided that it was time for the "traitor" to be taken before his father?

_I will tell, Lord Stark_, Howland decided. _I will tell him everything—Harrenhal, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, everything. _

"Ride swiftly. Take what you need and go." With that, Brandon Stark left and set about his own preparations.

Howland took the wounded and tired soldiers back to the camp, gave them time to change their horses, grab new water skins, and a little food before they got underway. The rest of the camp was still in chaos as Brandon's makeshift group of mounted swords prepared themselves for the pursuit.

With one last look, Howland fretted for Lyanna's safety, and then pointed his horse north, riding as hard as he could under the darkness of the night that had fallen.


	26. Chapter 26

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

**Sorry for the delay—I'm glad to say that I've been doing some paid editing work. (Don't judge me on this story—this is posted as it's completed and unbeta'd) It pretty much took up all of February to do a full 150k novel—if you're interested it's a children's fantasy novel called The Wizard of Crescent Moon Mountain by Oldman Brook, which should go to print very soon. I really enjoyed the whole experience.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Six – Precarious Balance

Lord Rickard didn't spot the riders at first, it was one of his soldiers that caught his attention.

"Lord Stark. Horsemen ahead...carrying the direwolf banner."

"Hmm?" the aging Warden asked, and then saw the figures in the distance for himself. There were six of them, and as they drew closer a hundred different explanations ran through his head. Many from the caravan had left to join his son and heir on his final journey before he became a married man, and if the stories were true, it was better that Lord Rickard had stayed well away.

Had their games gotten out of hand? Had someone gotten hurt? Brandon? Lyanna? Or had his wilful children been the cause of the harm? The latter was the most likely. Once Lord Stark could make the riders out, he recognised Howland Reed and the knight who he'd sent with his daughter, bloodied and dirty.

Lyanna wasn't with them, and Rickard started to panic. Once more, an iron fist clenched at his chest, and he took a few moments as it passed. Red faced, he looked up and caught his breath as the men approached.

Howland pulled to the head of the group and made a beeline for Lord Rickard himself, his face a picture of concern. This was not going to be glad tidings.

"My lord, I have grave news, but it is news that I must tell you in private."

In private? Lord Rickard's brow furrowed, but he pulled his horse out of line and walked it a distance away, the nervous crannogman following close behind. Once he'd paused for a while, the Reed boy looked around, and then spewed a number of hastily spoken words out into the air. All Lord Stark got was something about the Knight of the Laughing Tree, King's Landing, Lyanna and Brandon.

Holding his hand up, Lord Rickard halted the crannogman in his tracks. "Please, be calm. I didn't catch a word of that." He held his hand high for a few more seconds; once sure that Howland had taken a number of deep breaths, he signalled for him to continue.

"Lyanna rode off on her own four mornings ago. The knights tried to keep up with her, but she lost them in the woods. Some of them are here with me now—"

"Where is my daughter and what has she done this time?" Lord Rickard said with mock humour that did little to hide his true concern.

"We don't know where she is," Howland said solemnly, "but we do know who she's with...Prince Rhaegar. She rode away with him—willingly or unwillingly, we're not sure."

As if Lyanna would allow herself to be taken unwillingly, Lord Rickard thought with a snort. Should anyone be stupid enough to try, then Lord Rickard didn't doubt that said man would realise the errors of his ways quite quickly. But maybe there was one particular man who Lyanna wouldn't fight...

"Rhaegar Targaryen?" Lord Stark's mind immediately drifted back to Harrenhal, and remembered the moment the crown prince had unexpectedly presented Lyanna with the circlet of blue roses. At the time, Lord Rickard had thought it completely out of character, but his daughter did had a certain air about her and it seemed that it must have captivated the usually honourable Targaryen.

This would bring dishonour on the entire Stark family, and then there would be the reaction of Lord Robert Baratheon, Lyanna's betrothed. After all the trouble he'd gone to arrange good marriages for both of his eldest children.

Brandon. "And my son?"

Howland winced and Lord Stark prepared himself for the worst. "Brandon is riding for King's Landing with two hundred men."

Luckily, Lord Rickard had the chance to turn away before his chest clenched and his face grew red; the Reed boy probably thought it was his reaction to the news, but this bout was harsher than usual, and it took Lord Stark a while before he was able to suck air back into his lungs and be capable of reasonable thought.

As he turned around, Howland continued, his voice getting excitable and more and more panicky by the moment.

"There is something else, my lord. Something you should know. You see, Lyanna and Benjen, they were both the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and Prince Rhaegar—he knew. He helped Lyanna hide everything. The prince could have told the king, but he said nothing."

Lord Rickard stayed inert as he thought and recovered from his moment of shock. His mouth twitching in false amusement as he realised that it wasn't a surprise that his children were the secret identities of Harrenhal's unknown competitior, but it was the prince's actions that was the true mystery.

Prince Rhaegar had a reputation for being noble and honourable. He had helped children of a lord he barely had dealings with and no real reason to love, and he had crowned his daughter the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal—had that been a reward for her jousting, or merely because Lyanna was growing to be a strong and fiercely beautiful woman?

One thing was for sure, he hadn't taken her to marry her. Targaryen polygamy was very much a thing of the past, but there again, maybe his father could be persuaded to reinstate the tradition in order to save face. He was the king after all, and his son had a reputation to maintain.

Lord Rickard considered riding for King's Landing himself, but the soreness in his chest reminded him that he wasn't in the best of health. No, Brandon was already headed that way and maybe that was a good thing. If someone could pause him before he found the prince and passed on a message from his father...

He looked up at Howland who was waiting patiently. "Go fetch a maester. I will need to send ravens."

Desperately searching his mind, Lord Rickard wondered what friends he might find in King's Landing. Someone who might be able to catch and calm Brandon before he did anything rash, and give him a lesson in tact and diplomacy before he went before the king.

If the situation could be balanced just right, then maybe, just maybe, he could come out of this as the father of a princess. Yes, that would be the best outcome of a very messy situation.

What Lord Rickard knew was that now was not the time to be travelling to Riverrun. The ache throughout his body made him long for home and familiar surroundings. Lord Tully wouldn't be pleased at the delay, but what could be done if there was no groom to wed? Hopefully Lord Hoster Tully would say nothing if his future son-in-law came back with a royal sister, even if she was a second wife.

Storms End might not be so easily placated. A raven would need to be sent to Jon Arryn, who would know the right way to break the news. In the meantime, Lord Rickard would retreat back to the safety and comfort of Winterfell, to let the storm come to them.


	27. Chapter 27

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Seven - Ravens

Riverrun

Lord Hoster stormed down the corridors muttering to himself. "Blasted Starks. How hard is it to get a daughter wed? Damn that boy."

It had been Lord Rickard Stark who initially proposed the match between his heir and Catelyn, and after great thought, Hoster had decided that it would please him to see his eldest daughter as Lady of Winterfell, instead of strengthening of his local power by marrying her to one of his bannermen or their heirs.

Secure in that he had a son to step into his shoes, Lord Hoster had been swayed by the idea of having his line having a foothold in the bleak north. After all, he did have another daughter after Catelyn with whom to cement other relationships with.

Or at least that was what he had thought. Lysa was almost as fair as her older sister, and though both had their heads filled with gowns, silly games, and tales of knights in shining armour, Lysa had always been the more highly-strung of the two. With Catelyn, he could imagine her settling down to become the sensible wife of the future Warden of the North, a grim place full of serious men. Not that he would have heard any complaints from her—it seemed his flame-haired eldest daughter was quite taken with Brandon Stark.

Lysa was more flighty, more unpredictable and excitable. During a meeting with the former Hand, Tywin Lannister, he'd almost secured a union between his youngest girl and Jaime Lannister, the celebrated young Ser and wealthy heir to Casterly Rock—quite a coup. But those plans had fallen by the wayside the second the Lannister boy had accepted the honour of joining the King's Guard.

Lord Hoster had heard whispers that part of the boy's motivations for doing so had been because he wasn't so keen as his father to have him wed to Lysa Tully. Such talk would normally have provoked an outburst of anger, but as it was, at Harrenhal and immediately after, the Lord of the Riverlands had something else consuming him.

His youngest daughter had gotten pregnant by that up-jumped so-called ward from the Fingers, Petyr Baelish. It was a good thing he had already been returned home after the embarrassing incident with the Stark boy, otherwise Littlefinger, as he was so called, would have found that the wounds his previous duel had left him with were mere scratches.

In a way, not having to hand Lysa over, as soiled as she was, and risk Lord Tywin's wrath may have been a good thing. Hoster had made her drink moon tea, after an ugly, heated discussion, and the pregnancy had been ended but Lysa was not herself. She had become bitter and withdrawn, either sitting there catatonic or shrieking with rage.

Lysa had only one thing to say to her father, that she would never forgive him. It broke Lord Hoster's heart to hear it. He had made her drink the tea for her own sake. Lysa could not marry Petyr Baelish as she pleaded, and Lord Hoster would not have him married into the noble house of Tully. Their motto was Family, Duty, Honour, and Littlefinger did not know the meaning of the words.

It was difficult enough to keep a pregnancy quiet, especially with the noticeable change in Lysa's disposition, but had the child been born any reasonable kind of marriage would have been impossible. He wanted only the best for Lysa—couldn't she see that?

Tywin Lannister had sent an eloquently worded apology for the behaviour of his son, and even offered the hand of his youngest son, Tyrion in Jaime's place. Young Tyrion Lannister, it was said, was a grotesque—a deformed freak whose monstrous shape had torn his mother to pieces when he was born. He stayed hidden away in their ancestral home, away from mocking eyes.

Lord Hoster hadn't considered it for a second. He couldn't do that to Lysa—not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. He wouldn't marry her to a monster for the sake of the title Lady of Lannister; in her present state of mind it would surely drive her to madness.

The still-powerful but aging lord paused outside Catelyn's quarters, trying to find the right words to tell his oldest daughter that her wedding had been postponed yet again. She was still a fine prize—the oldest daughter of a respectable noble house, beautiful, and as sensible as a teenage girl could be expected to be, so why was it so hard to pin her betrothed down?

Hoster decided that whether it was to Brandon Stark or not, Catelyn would be married before the year was out to a great lord who truly deserved her. And Lysa...well, he would do his best for her, too.

He pushed the doors open.

~X~

The Eeyrie

Jon Arryn read the piece of paper in his hands once more and took a deep breath.

_My friend, bad tidings. Lyanna has been taken by Prince Rhaegar and Brandon rides for King's Landing. I trust you will break the news to your young wards. While I try to calm the situation, I beg you to keep my second son safe, in case the worst should happen. RS._

How best to break the news? Eddard would listen to what was being said, think about it, and then react exactly as he should no matter how upset he might be. He might make a few suggestions about how best to retrieve his sister, but he would respect whatever decision was made.

Robert would be another matter.

Getting up from his desk, he walked through the echoing corridors, the clanging of metal on metal telling him where Eddard and Robert were being taught today. Not wanting to pass on the message the raven had brought while they were sparring, he stood and watched for a while. He caught the attention of one of the guards and whispered in his ear, telling him to make sure that no one left the Eeryie today, this night, or tomorrow without Lord Arryn's written permission.

Jon then turned his attention back to his wards, the boys that had he been charged with turning into noble men.

Robert had forgone his famous war hammer in favour of a sword, and for good reason—even when play fighting, he had a habit of swinging hard and the master-at-arms had said that he was best practicing his swings alone these days. Too many men had needed the maester's healing skills otherwise.

Despite his prowess with his preferred weapon, with a sword he was average at best. Or was it just that Eddard's swordsmanship was far superior? Lord Arryn watched blow after blow. His young Stark ward did not brag about his abilities—in fact, he was quite humble. He was being modest; Eddard was quick and if he concentrated on that particular skill more often, maybe he would even be good enough for the king's guard one day?

Though that would all depend on how well the Starks remained in favour with the king.

At Harrenhal there had been a definite tension between the Targaryen ruler and the northern men, and now Brandon Stark was riding for King's Landing. Jon did not think that Rickard's heir was the most skilled diplomat that could have been sent, and wondered about the circumstances behind it.

Later, he decided, he would send a rider to find out more information...once satisfied that his wards were safely contained and prevented from joining in on the scandal about to unfold.

The boys' sparring ended, and sweaty and breathless they took a seat on a low stone wall while they recovered. It was now that Lord Arryn approached. Something on his face sobered Eddard and Robert's expressions as he drew near.

"I have news from your father, Eddard. Something grave has happened, and Lord Stark has charged me with keeping you safe here in the Eeryrie while the matter is rectified. The news concerns you, too, Robert."

Robert's brow furrowed and he was about to say something but Ned got there first.

"What? What has happened? Is everyone well? Is my family safe?"

Both boys looked at Jon while he bowed his head, looking solemn.

"Your brother, Brandon, is riding for King's Landing. Both of you will remain here with me until the situation is calmed. No one will go down the mountain without my say so. I will send a rider to Lord Stark to find out more than what he was able to send by raven."

"What is it?"

Lord Arryn swallowed hard. "Prince Rhaegar has taken Lyanna. Under which circumstances, I know not."

Robb got to his feet immediately, a red flush spreading up his neck to his face. Ned remained seated but seemed to slump into himself, searching the ground for answers.

"I knew it!" Rob yelled. "At Harrenhal..."

Storming across the courtyard, he headed to where his war hammer was resting. Through the red mist clouding his vision, it was the only thing he could see.

"Robert, you will remain here until I give you leave to do otherwise," Jon shouted after him, but by then his impulsive ward was already on his way to his room to collect a few essential belongings for his journey, stopping by the kitchens for a bag of food, a wineskin, and one filled with water.

By the time he got to the main exit, he found the way barred by numerous guards.

"Get out my way, you fools," he growled, but they stood firm.

"No one passes without written permission from Lord Arryn."

Robb gripped his war hammer in his fists. "This is my permission. Now let me through."

"No one passes without written permission from Lord Arryn," the guard replied again, this time gripping the hilt of his sword, reluctant to draw it against the man he had seen grown from a young orphan boy.

The moment was broken by an approaching rattle. Ned was walking down the corridor, dressed in his full armour, visor pulled down and sword by his side. Robb beamed when he saw him. Not giving thought beyond getting to King's Landing, he hadn't considered that he might need others with him. With his friend by his side, he would head to Storm's End, the place of his early childhood which he was now Lord of, and call up his bannermen. Together they would make Rhaegar pay for thinking he could lay hands on Lyanna Stark.

With a metallic ring, Ned drew his sword.

"Come on. Let's clear the way," Robb said with a smile.

Armoured Ned stood still for a moment. "I'm not here to help you. I'm here to stop you."

"Stop me?" Robb said stunned. "This is about your sister!"

"I know, and if we go rushing off, not knowing anything beyond she has been taken and Brandon is going to King's Landing, we'll create more problems than we solve."

"We know he took her. That's enough," Robert shouted. "She's mine, Ned."

With a roar, Robb lunged forward, swinging his hammer but giving Ned enough space to leap out of the way. Though his sword was ready, Robb's reach with the war hammer was far greater than his, and so Ned continued to dance away from his friend's half-hearted strikes.

The dance continued amongst shouts from the guards and the sound of others approaching, until Ned's blade found the slightest of chinks in Robb's armour, near his neck, the tip piercing his flesh near the old wound Brandon had once left. But Ned did not push it further, only allowing it to sting while Robb's hammer fell, defeated.

Jon Arryn approached as Ned lifted his visor, allowing the two of them a few moments for the blood rush of combat to fade.

"Where would you go, Robert, had you been allowed to leave?" Jon said calmly.

"Storm's End," Robb said breathlessly with a scowl, "and then onto King's Landing to tell the bastard to show himself."

Jon shook his head. "Then all that would achieve would be getting your head on a spike—"

"So you expect me to let him get away with it? Allow him to do what he likes just because he's royalty?" Robb was still angry, but Ned kept him pinned down, unable to move.

Jon approached his two wards, but it was Robb's eyes that he looked into. "Tell me, Robert...if you had kidnapped a girl from her father, would you head to the first place everyone would go looking for you?"

Robb thought about it for a moment. "No, I'd find myself a cosy little love nest. Somewhere I could have as much time with her as possible before we were found."

"Exactly," Jon agreed. "Prince Rhaegar is a clever man. We will wait to find out more news—which direction he was headed, whether he has been seen—and _then_ you can go out to confront him."

After a while Robb nodded his assent and Ned backed away. The young Lord of Storm's End touched the wound the Stark sword had left on his neck, and his fingers came away bloody. The accusing look he gave soon faded as Ned looked reticent.

"You cut me."

"Aye."

Satisfied that the crisis had been averted, Jon retired to his study, his head whirring. Hopefully he had placated Robert for now, but sooner or later he would want to go and retrieve his betrothed. Trying to hold him back would be like holding back the tides, but to let him do so would surely result in his death and the death of his family as he tarred them all with his treason.

Having no sons of his own, Robb and Ned had grown to be like his children, and he did not wish to see a hair on either of their heads harmed.

~X~

King's Landing

King Aerys sat in his solar smiling to himself until he became aware that young Varys had returned.

Aerys greeted him with the widest of grins. This morning he had given him the news that his son had stolen Lord Stark's daughter from right under his nose. Despite his initial suspicion that Rhaegar was sealing his pact with the north through marriage, the sight of his Dornish daughter-in-law and her children had made him smile.

How many times had Aerys thought about stealing Joanna Lannister but told himself it was a folly that would lose him his crown and his kingdom? And now here was his son doing the same with _his_ Joanna.

No, this couldn't be the beginnings of a plan to overthrow him. This would alienate Dorne as Rhaegar shamed his wife. It would crack the perfect image the crown prince had painted for himself. And if it wasn't pre-arranged with the Starks then their angry response would give the king the very excuse he needed to eliminate them all and find a new Warden of the North.

But Varys was here again. What more wonderful tidings could his Master of Secrets have for him?

"Your Grace, you may be interested to read this." The foreign, shaved-headed eunuch handed over a small sheet of parchment, stained with blood. "Lord Stark sent a raven to a friend here in King's Landing, which we intercepted."

"_My eldest son, Brandon, rides on King's Landing with two hundred men. You must hinder his way before he does anything foolish. Tell him he must implore the king to make the prince to take a second wife. I will send a rider with more details of the case he must put. Teach him diplomacy."_

The king almost crushed the parchment in his hand, but then he stopped himself. What he was holding was written proof of the Starks' treason. They were seeking to turn one of their own into royalty. Aerys himself had seen how frail Princess Elia was, and her children were still very young...it wouldn't take much to eliminate them and see an heir born of a Stark womb on the throne.

He would not allow it. The insolence of the Starks awoke the dragon within him, and for a moment he felt as if he could breathe fire.

_Burn them. Burn them all,_ he thought to himself, but aloud he said to Varys, "Bring me the man for whom this message was sent. I wish to put his head on a spike."

"As you wish, your Grace." Varys exited with a bow, leaving the grinning king to his thoughts. While he padded softly away from the king's solar, loud, cackling laughter rang out, echoing through the corridors.


	28. Chapter 28

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Eight – The Road to Joy

Rhaegar and Lyanna kept up a punishing pace as they rode. They made it to the stoney hill where they would await Ser Oswell Whent with time to spare, but then their progress faltered. Once the sun fell below the horizon and the sky was a blaze of orange, pinks and reds fading into deep blues and purples, it was Arthur that requested they make camp for the night.

"You might not need to rest but the horses and I do. Plus, we aren't going to be able to see where we are going for much longer, and neither will anyone else. I say we make the most of tonight and then keep up the pace tomorrow once the sun rises, whether Oswell joins us or not. "

He looked at their new travelling companion to see if she had changed her mind after leaving her family far behind. The Stark girl's face was flushed with exertion and her eyes were bright, though her face was serious and determined rather than amused. Since she had chosen to come with them, she had proven that she was more than match for the men she rode with.

Stiff and sore, Arthur climbed down from his horse and walked over to Lyanna Stark to help her down, only to find that she had already dismounted herself. For his gallantry, the knight of the kingsguard received a scowl.

Having left as quickly as they did, they were somewhat unprepared for their journey. Still, they had the basics—the means to make a small fire, a little food and water, and cloaks with which to cover themselves. Arthur disappeared into the darkness for a short while and returned with two squirrels, which he then roasted on sticks after skinning.

As she accepted some charred meat, Lyanna laughed. "Not exactly royal fayre..."

The sides of the prince's mouth twitched. "If I'm honest, I prefer the simplicity. Give me campfire roasted squirrel over poached swan with almonds anytime."

Lyanna took a moment to decide whether she really believed him.

There was little in the way of conversation as the scrawny animals were picked clean, everyone choosing to reconcile the day's events in the privacy of their own minds.

It was Arthur that broke the silence first. "I will take the first watch. It will be a long ride tomorrow and you should both rest while you can."

Prince Rhaegar shook his head. "I doubt I will find much in the way of sleep tonight. I will keep lookout, Arthur."

Knowing his friend had never been one for resting, Arthur agreed and covered himself over with his long white cloak. Rhaegar offered his to Lyanna as she curled up within the circle of light by the fire, the rich black cloth blending in with her dark hair.

Once her eyes had closed, Rhaegar observed her in the flicking orange glow.

He half expected to wake up any second to find himself asleep somewhere far, far away from the Riverlands, with his head on a book as usual, but the aching in his muscles and joints reminded him that this was real. It all seemed a little too easy.

After seeing his best friend's sister and her newborn child safely to Starfall, and explaining the situation to her furious parents, they'd continued northwards. Most still believed they were on the original mission to force Eddard Stark to marry Ashara Dayne, but their commanders knew otherwise, each being one of Rhaegar's trusted friends.

The real plan had been to head north, hopefully coming across the Starks, where he would use the Knight of the Laughing Tree as justification for arresting Lyanna and taking her from her family. He had expected a fight, and as such had brought a small but capable force. In the end it had been much more than what was needed.

Lyanna Stark had fallen straight into his lap, and somehow that felt as if it had not happened by accident. This was meant to be, he told himself as he watched her sleeping, and then wondered which prophecy he was referring to—the direwolf knight or the three heads of the dragon.

Some time later, as he was feeding a little more dry wood to the dwindling fire, Rhaegar became aware of eyes on him in the darkness. He looked up to see that Lyanna was awake, and for a second he felt that paralysing lapse of thought as their gaze locked, much as it had for the first time on the tourney field.

"How much longer until dawn?" she asked, with an alertness that said her eyes had been open and on him for more than just a moment.

"A while yet, my lady." Rhaegar settled himself back into a seated position, with the fire safely between them both, though he secretly wanted to move closer.

Lyanna sat up and pulled the cloak that had been her blanket around her tightly. Though he felt the chill through his armour, he was well aware that she had lost hers when being pursued through the woods.

"I am sure that even princes need to sleep even just a little. Let me keep watch for a while."

Rhaegar shook his head. "No, I am used to staying up until almost dawn most nights. I will be fine. The road to the Red Mountains in Dorne is long, and once we arrive we will begin your training. You should rest while you can."

Lyanna looked at him for a moment until she replied, her voice giving a hint of her annoyance. "If the road is as long as you say then you will need to rest, too. Or is it perhaps that you think that as a woman I need my beauty sleep? If I'm to be trained as a knight then you should treat me like you would a male knight. I don't ask for any special treatment because of my sex."

She looked at the crown prince through the flames, the fire reflecting on his ruby encrusted breast plate. One second he was the heir to the throne of Westeros, the idol of many a maiden's dreams with his glittering armour and smooth, milky-white hair, and the next he was the young man in the hood, who knew of her secret jousting and approved of it—that was the thing that Lyanna's dreams were made of. Yet, she wasn't entirely oblivious to his handsomeness and suspected that maybe she was blushing a little.

Rhaegar got to his feet and walked around the circle toward her. Lyanna's pulse started racing, but then a strange kind of half-relief flushed throughout her as he paused, unsheathed his sword, and handed it to her.

"You are right, although it is worth noting that a good knight should always be chivalrous...and know how to accept chivalry gracefully." He smiled just a little, turning around and heading back to the spot on the opposite side of the fire. Before he could settle himself, however, he was startled to find Lyanna immediately behind him.

She stood there, holding out his thick, black cloak. For a second she thought he was going to refuse, but then he slowly took it from her hands, giving her an unfathomable look. Once she was unburdened, she quickly turned away, looking into the blackness, her ears listening for the slightest human sound.

More than once, the widest of grins stretched across her face. She lifted the blade of Valyrian steel, inspecting the dark ripples in the orange glow, and enjoying the weight in her hand.

This is it, she thought. This was what she'd always wanted—the path she'd always felt was the one she should be taking...though it did cross her mind that the empowerment did feel a little chilly without Rhaegar's cloak.

As she had done many times that day, she worried about the reaction of her family. She even felt guilty as she pictured Robert Baratheon, her betrothed, but then she shook her head. She didn't want to be a bride—she never had. She would have been a terrible wife, Lyanna decided; the Lord of Storm's End should marry a noble lady who was more suited to the task.

Ben...what would his reaction be? He was going to squire for Roose Bolton, though out of all of their father's bannermen he was the last one he would have chosen. He'd told Lyanna that he had nightmares about being flayed the first time he made a mistake.

He would be so jealous to find out that she was being taught by no less than Prince Rhaegar, and possibly even the elite members of the kingsguard. Lyanna stole a look at Ser Arthur Dayne, the famed Sword of the Morning—he would be a formidable teacher, though right now he was making noises much like a pig as he snored. But still, this was the kind of opportunity that every would-be knight would kill for, and somehow she'd been the lucky one.

As much as she didn't want to question the gift, Lyanna's eyes found the prince, flinching as he dreamed. Why had he made the offer?

Her mind went back to their journey through the countryside surrounding Harrenhal. He'd mentioned the spearwives beyond the wall, and how when the darkness came it wouldn't discriminate between man, woman, or child.

He had also praised her performance during the tourney; though Lyanna knew she wasn't a match for Ser Barristan the Bold or the prince himself, she told herself that she could be, given time and training. Did the prince see that, too?

How many women could be skilled with a sword, or a bow, or a lance if only they were given the chance at something more interesting than needlework? Some thought their sex weak, but that was because they were never allowed to grow strong—it wasn't seemly. It wasn't ladylike. It wasn't fair.

Lyanna thought some more and the image of Rhaegar riding down the tourney field sprung to mind. She recalled his expression as he handed over the rose crown. "_...in honour of your beauty, and your _spirit..."

Confused, Lyanna considered whether it might have been the former rather than the latter that might have inspired the decision to spirit her away. She felt a strange mixture of excitement and disappointment at the idea. But then again, how many times had she looked at the circle of thorns and dried, crumbling petals and mused over how handsome the hooded boy had been...how much she'd wished he'd actually kissed her beneath the oak tree...

A crack broke Lyanna's train of thought and she held the sword ready. Whoever it was must have already seen the fire—no doubt it could be seen for miles in the dark—so she called out, "Hello. Who goes there?"

A white cloaked figure appeared in the gloom, and Ser Oswell Whent answered with his name. Still, Lyanna waited until she could confirm it by seeing his face before lowering her borrowed Valyrian steel blade.

"My lady," he said with a nod, before his brow wrinkled. "Or should I call you 'Ser'?"

Lyanna could only answer with a smile, as she wasn't sure herself.

The white knight looked at his fellow kingsguard and the sleeping prince. "The lady guards while the men sleep? Something strikes me as wrong here."

"I can handle a sword as well as the next man," Lyanna said a little too quickly, and she regretted her choice of words as she was rewarded with a knowing smirk, similar to the ones her brother often gave.

"Then I can see why the good prince chose you to keep watch." Ser Oswell settled himself by the fire and pulled out an apple. "So you were the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"

Unsure of whether he was mocking her, and unwilling to reveal her brother's secret to a stranger, she simply nodded her head and sat herself nearby. "Prince Rhaegar is going to train me and knight me when the time comes."

Ser Oswell took a bite of his apple and frowned in her direction. There was a brief uncomfortable silence as he stared. "Well, you'll certainly be the prettiest knight I've ever laid eyes on, but will you be worth the bloodshed?"

"Bloodshed?"

"Don't be naive. You've not been gone a day and how many men do you think have already died for this—for you?"

"Died?" Lyanna swallowed hard.

"I counted at least five on the field today—the men guarding you."

Her heart sank as she pictured the faces of her father's men who she had enjoyed teasing so, as she left them far behind on her morning ride. Which five had fallen?

"I doubt they'll be the last. No doubt your family will follow the very obvious trail the good prince has arranged all the way to King's Landing. What then? You had best hope they find the king on a good day, and they are so very rare these days."

Lyanna looked into the fire. Her father wouldn't do anything rash, surely...

Ser Oswell threw the apple core into the flames, where it landed with a hiss.

"I have a lot of faith in the prince. He's a wise man, and one day he will be a good king. I hope for all our sake's that you're worth the trouble this will cause."

Lyanna's face grew harrowed as one hundred possible outcomes raced through her mind, some good, some bad, others indifferent. But she had made her choice now, hadn't she?

For a second she considered changing her mind. She would tell the prince that she appreciated his offer, but she didn't want anyone dying for her just so she could live out a dream—a dream that she'd cherished from the moment she first watched her older brothers fighting in the yard. She remembered the first time she'd picked up a wooden sword and promptly been chastised by her Septa for whacking Ned around the head with it. The first time she'd trained in secret with Benjen...the flush of her victory at Harrenhal...the feeling of recognition as Rhaegar had handed her the rose crown...

After all that, even to save the lives of others, could she really go back?

She pictured herself in Storm's End, a brood of squabbling children at her feet and a drunken, lecherous husband by her side. As she looked at Lady Lyanna Baratheon one thing struck her above all others—she looked miserable, her spirit broken.

There would be no more chances after this. If she couldn't run away and achieve her dream with the prince's assistance, then there was no hope. It was selfish and her ribcage felt constricted as she considered that people might lose their lives...people who she cared about.

No. She wasn't going back.


	29. Chapter 29

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. Special mention to for the info I've taken from there to create this chapter.**

~X~

Chapter Twenty Nine – Come Out and Die

Brandon looked up at the men on the battlements above as he trotted through the Old Gate into the city. The guards looked back at him, though they made no move to pause him to ask his purpose, or that of the almost two hundred knights riding behind him.

More fool them, Brandon thought, and then his eyes found the Red Keep again.

In which tower was his sister being kept? Or was she in the dungeons, chained in the dark so that she didn't have the strength to snarl and snap her teeth when the prince came to violate her?

Brandon gripped his reins tighter, barely resisting the urge to gallop ahead. He looked around at the people of King's Landing, seeing the way they cowered out of the way as the mounted force made its way past stalls and brothels, along the Street of Sisters, and ever closer to the Red Keep. There were mutters and looks of concern but no one questioned them to their faces.

Finally, they made their way up Aegon's Hill and to the gatehouse of the Red Keep itself. As the line filtered through into the courtyard beyond, Brandon waited for the gathering of horses and men behind him. The enclosed space soon became crowded with armed, mounted knights. Once the show of support was assembled, Brandon looked up at the soldiers on the battlements and the faces appearing in the windows. Was one of them the king? Rhaegar? His sister?

"Rhaegar Targaryen," Brandon began, yelling at the top of his voice. "You have taken my sister, shamed my family, and I demand justice."

Voices all around him started humming with unheard agreement or apprehension. Though he'd told himself to wait for a response before making his challenge, the words burst free.

"I, Brandon Stark, request a trial by combat against the prince who stole my sister. Rhaegar, come out and die!"

Inside Maegor's Holdfast, the castle within the castle, King Aerys II looked down at the distant courtyard. The young Stark had a powerful voice and it carried well. No doubt almost all of those within the Red Keep had heard him and his treason.

It was even better than Aerys had planned for.

"Come out and die!" the fool yelled again, unaware that the king had been preparing for this moment for a week. The king nodded and at once a shout rang out, closely followed by the rumble and clang of the portcullis falling, trapping the northmen like fish in a barrel.

Aerys watched as archers on the walls revealed themselves and let loose their arrows. It would have been better if he'd had his way and used wildfire, but his incompetent Hand had talked him out of it.

"Kill as few as possible. If you can take hostages then you can ransom them back to their families and make them swear loyalty to you. Punish them by making them fill your coffers and empty theirs."

In the beginning, the king had thought Owen Merryweather's vocal loyalty and agreeableness were the perfect traits for the new Hand, but he was weak. At present, he was more like to hear better advice from his reflection in the mirror.

A young, calm voice inside Aerys' head whispered that Tywin Lannister was still the best man for the job, and he was about argue with Rhaegar when he realised that it was a different young prince speaking up—a naive boy who knew nothing of the world, before he'd had his eyes opened during the horror of Duskendale.

It was amazing how often he confused his young self with his oldest son, but then they shared the same blood. Blood of the dragon. It was fire that burned away the dark dreams and kept them at bay, and the dragon inside him had made him strong, rebuilding the walls that had crumbled while he was held captive in _that_ place.

Aerys thought of the animal sigils of the squabbling, grasping lords that constantly plagued him. All creatures cowered before a dragon, and maybe instead of a lion he should have another dragon as Hand, as his ally—the crown prince.

But no, Rhaegar had taken Joanna Stark and no one knew where. If Aerys had taken his Joanna, as he had often dreamed of doing, then he would have found a place far from prying eyes, just for the two of them, and he would not hurry back. No, his heir would be gone for some time.

Maybe it was for the best. As a dutiful father he would deal with this wolf from the north, baying for his son's blood. Tread lightly with treason and you were likely to find it was you who was trampled upon. The king had made a pretence of being persuaded by Merryweather, but he had ideas of his own.

"Make sure you take Brandon Stark alive, and the sons of any lords of note, and bring them before the iron throne."

The king made his way through the corridors, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Gerold Hightower, to his right, and his toy, young Jamie Lannister to his left.

Aerys looked at the simpering, pleased look on his Hand's face as their paths converged on the way to the throne room, but Aerys ignored him. Instead he concentrated on the dwindling moans and cries from the gatehouse courtyard, and his mood lifted considerably. The wolf had attacked but he was no match for a dragon.

The dragon, however, gave pause as he approached his old enemy, the throne made of old swords melted together to make a royal seat for the descendants of the first dragon king, Aegon—a seat for conquerors. Aerys swore that the seemingly solid blades often twisted and coiled like snakes, and if he took his eyes off them for a second they bit, infecting his body with metallic venom and drawing blood.

Ruling was never meant to be comfortable, he reminded himself, and then apprehensively took his place, just in time to see a number of guards marching or dragging a number of captives through the curious courtiers that were beginning to gather. Confused, they wanted answers as to why their handsome, agreeable, and much loved prince was being challenged. Many had heard the rumours about the Stark girl by now, but most refused to think ill of him.

Brandon Stark stumbled forward, his hands bound behind his back, preventing him from wiping away the trail of blood from a cut to his forehead that threatened to flow into his eyes at any second. He'd led his friends and his men into a trap that—had he had more of his wits about him at the time—he should have seen from a mile away.

Good men had died today, and the consequences of his rash act weighed heavy on his spirit, as a broken wolf made his way to the iron throne at the insistence of his captors. As swayed and hobbled, he searched amongst the faces left and right for any sight of his sister or the coward who had allowed archers to answer the challenge meant for him. The prince had no honour. How could he ever consider calling this man his king?

Pushed forward, Brandon struggled to keep his footing, ending up on his knees, and he found himself flanked by his squire, Ethan Glover, and his close friends, Elbert Arryn, Kyle Royce, and Jeffory Mallister.

The wizened old king stared at him with strangely wide eyes as their names were read out to the court, and Brandon could swear he saw the beginnings of a smile poorly disguised. A murmur ran through the audience which fell silent as soon as the bony monarch got to his feet.

"Why did you come here? What possessed you to think you could blatantly ride through this city, up to the seat of kings, and threaten to kill our beloved crown prince? We all heard your treason—your intention to murder my son outside the walls of his own home."

Brandon took a deep breath, aware of the danger he was in, and despite the urge to fight his bounds and howl he tried to use some of his father's measure. "Justice. I came here for justice for my sister."

The audience's combined whispers became a roar, which ceased as the king held his hand up.

"Then I will show you the meaning of justice, Stark." The king walked past his new prizes, looking at the eager faces beyond waiting for his judgment. "As your king...as a loving father...I know that the values of the boy come from the man that raised him. I demand that the fathers of each of these traitors come to King's Landing to answer for their son's actions, to watch their trial, and to swear their loyalty before witnesses. All treason must be punished, and to come with an army, through the streets of our peaceful city, there will be a dear price to be paid. Mark my words."

It was a popular decision, and there was much nodding of heads and cheers. Owen Merryweather was all smiles as the king returned to the throne, though Aerys did not seat himself.

"Take these fools to the dungeon to wait the arrival of their kin. The north is a long way and I'm sure they could use the time to reflect."

The king left the room as the prisoners were hauled to the feet and pushed away, yelling as they went.


	30. Chapter 30

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. Special mention to for the info I've taken from there to create this chapter.**

~X~

Chapter Thirty – The Stark in Winterfell

Winterfell

Lord Rickard saw the small figure beneath the heart tree, hunched over with his knees tucked up to his chest, and walked in his direction. His armour weighed heavy as he trudged under the familiar boughs and branches of the godswood, but if he was heading to King's Landing he at least wanted to look the part of strong northern lord, even if he didn't feel it.

Beneath the breast plate and greaves, his ribs seemed to crush his heart and lungs, and his arms felt weak. Maester Walys had told him how he believed the strain of recent events was causing his heart to fail. The maester had also tried to convince him not to heed the king's demand to appear at his son's trial, that it might be the end of him, but what kind of father abandoned a child in their hour of need?

The charge was treason. Lord Stark wasn't so naive that he believed he would only be required to watch a trial—treason tainted an entire family. If he could secure Brandon's freedom by offering up himself then so be it. If Maester Walys was right then Rickard's days were already numbered, and the idea of surviving even for a short while when his oldest son languished in the dungeons of the Red Keep or his head decorated a spike sickened him.

With a clank, he lowered himself down onto the earth beside a red-eyed and sniffing Benjen. His youngest boy looked up, and Lord Rickard knew what he would say before he even opened his mouth.

"I want to come with you."

Rickard shook his head. "You need to stay here in Winterfell."

"At least let me go looking for Lyanna. I can find her—I know I can." Benjen tried to raise his voice but his throat was still thick with sobs.

"She could be anywhere in Westeros or beyond by now. If by some miracle you found her trail, what would you do when you found her? Can one half of the Knight of the Laughing Tree really defeat Prince Rhaegar and whichever knights of the kingsguard hold her? No, you will stay here. There must—"

"—Always be a Stark in Winterfell. I know." Benjen's face crumbled. "But I want to help. Brandon...Lyanna...it's all my fault. If I hadn't jousted at Harrenhal..."

Unexpectedly, Lord Stark pulled his son into a hug, squashing his wet cheeks against his breastplate.

"It's not your fault, Benjen. If anyone is to blame then it's me. I shouldn't have allowed Lyanna to ride off on the way to Riverrun. If I hadn't then maybe Brandon would be a husband instead of a captive, and rather than a missing daughter I'd have gained a daughter-in-law."

Benjen said nothing so Rickard continued.

"It's not just that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If you're here then I know you're safe. I'm going to a dangerous place and who knows what might happen to Brandon and myself. Should Lyanna never return home then there'll be just you and Ned to carry on the family name."

Benjen wiped his eyes. "You think something might happen to you? Then don't go. Don't leave me here on my own!"

"I don't know," Lord Stark said as convincingly as possible. "But if something does happen to me, Brandon...maybe Ned...will need you. Besides, there is a lot to do here. You want to be a knight someday? Then you must learn that there's as much honour in doing your duty as there is in fighting great battles and seeking glory."

For a moment they sat in silence.

"Do you think she'll come home soon?"

Lord Stark sighed. "There is much about what happened that I don't know. The prince has taken her—for what ends? Maybe he'll tire of her? Maybe she'll tire of him? Or perhaps not."

"You think she wanted to go with Rhaegar?"

Rickard gave a wry smile. "Lyanna has always been a law unto herself. You said yourself that she spoke highly of him after Harrenhal."

For a moment they sat in silence, until the weary father reluctantly got to his feet. Without words, Ben followed him to where many men had gathered in the courtyard, and stood by Maester Walys' side amongst the throng of horses, squires, and banners of many colours. His father's stern mask was firmly back in place, and he gave a final farewell nod.

Howland Reed joined him, and the three watched the preparations until the procession left Winterfell and disappeared into the distance. It wasn't until later that Benjen returned to his room to find his father's great sword, Ice, on his bed.

Picking up the piece of parchment that was pinned underneath it, Benjen read it.

_Keep me safe until Lord Stark returns._

In his heart Ben knew that his father was not expecting that Lord Stark to be himself.

~X~

The Eeyrie

Jon Arryn looked out into the godswood and saw Ned exactly where he expected him to be. Even as a child this spot had always been where he'd run to whenever he was hurt and upset.

When Jon had passed on the declaration from King's Landing, Ned had visibly reeled. Robert had put a hand on his shoulder, but it had been shrugged off, and his Stark ward had stumbled out of the room. Lord Arryn had let him go—not least because he needed time himself to come to terms with the news.

His own nephew, Elbert, was amongst those held captive by King's Landing, and as his father hadn't lived to see his only child born, the demand to witness his trial was sent to Jon himself.

Whatever questions there might be about the king's behaviour in recent years, it was obvious that he had not lost any of his guile. The request was guaranteed to bring every lord to the Red Keep. Besides, to decline was to openly defy their monarch—an act of treason.

Or was that the only option? Was there another way? What awaited them when they arrived? Jon did not think that this would end well, and was half tempted not to go, but then they had Elbert...

And what of his promise to Lord Stark to keep Ned safe? No doubt Rickard understood the situation as much as he did. If Jon went to King's Landing to answer the demand and something happened to him, was Robert's reaction likely to bring disaster to the Baratheon family, too? Having no children of his own, his wards were as close to him as sons.

Jon's head had begun to hurt, and as such he'd decided to find Ned—to find how he was bearing the news.

Ned looked up as Jon approached and took a seat on a low wall nearby.

"Father will do his duty and go to King's Landing...and what then?" Ned asked.

"Time will tell."

The two shared a pointed look that said that their minds were on the same line of thought.

"The king asked for you, too."

Jon nodded. The questions were in Ned's eyes but he didn't ask them—which was a good thing, as Lord Arryn didn't know what the answers were as yet.


	31. Chapter 31

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. Special mention to for the info I've taken from there to create this chapter.**

~X~

Chapter Thirty One – Simple Joy

Red Mountains, Dorne

A smile pulled at Rhaegar's face as he watched Lyanna Stark ride away.

She was impatient. The second he'd pointed out their destination, the simple tower amongst the rocky peaks in the distance, she'd paused for only a second before galloping off at a pace that denied the fact that their road had been a long and arduous one.

The prince had considered attempting to keep up, or directing Arthur or Ser Oswell to do likewise, but they were all exhausted. Rhaegar looked at his companions, who were as dry and dusty as he was. As dry and dusty as Lyanna herself, but not half as fair.

His lady of Stark could ride, and he did not doubt that there would be few who could match her. Even less if he gave her one of the light, swift and durable sand steeds Dorne was known for. ..

For a second he allowed himself to think of her, resplendent in form-fitting ice-like armour at the head of a thousand cavalry. But it wasn't the Lyanna he knew now who roared as she charged, her dark hair catching in the wind as she rode down wights and worse—it was a Lyanna as a grown woman, in her peak, and by her side rode a boy. Their son.

It was a vision that made Rhaegar's breath catch in his throat for a moment.

Once he recovered, he looked to his left to find Ser Oswell staring, as he had been doing so often lately. Oswell did not approve of his actions with regard to Lyanna Stark, though he did not speak the words, obeying his vows. But then he did not know the reasons behind it all. Unlike with Arthur, his trusted friend, he hadn't confided the many things he'd read, the things he'd dreamed, with this member of the kings guard.

No doubt others would think ill of him, too. Lords, ladies, the people of the realm. What would his wife think? He already knew what his wife would think, but more importantly he knew what she would do. She would bear the disgrace with what dignity she could muster, and continue to raise their children as well as she always had. And he loved her for it—one day she would still be his queen. Only now it was different.

_Three. Three heads of the dragon. There must be three dragon riders for three dragons. I have my royal heir, a son to be king one day, and a princess to stand by his side. There must be another...and a child half-dragon, half-wolf will be a fearsome warrior when the dark night comes..._

As Rhaegar passed through the arched gate, his eyes automatically sought out Lyanna. She had dismounted and was stood in the small courtyard, her skirts trailing in the sand and kicking up a dust cloud.

She turned, a wide smile stretching across her dusty face, and held out her arms.

"So when do we start?"

Prince Rhaegar felt another smile as he climbed down from his horse, and stared at the few servants he'd employed during his previous visit. They knew to expect his return and he'd left many instructions, but he could see that they weren't expecting him to have female company. After all, the people of Westeros knew their prince was married.

Though their brows were furrowed and their eyes accused, he still walked over and greeted them. As he did, a short, swarthy man stepped forward and held out an item covered in a velvet cloth.

"Exactly as you requested, my prince."

"Thank you." The prince took it and smiled gratefully, then turned to Lyanna, walking over to her in the centre of the sandy courtyard that was soon to become her training ring.

"We start tomorrow." The sudden disappointment in her face as soon as he had spoke did not elude him. "After a bath, food, and a good night's sleep."

"I don't need any of that. I want to be taught how to fight now." The set of Lyanna's jaw was determined as she glared up at him.

The prince looked down at her, at her soiled dress, and raised his eyebrows. "You should at least change into something you can fight in. In the meantime, maybe this might keep the Lady of the Laughing Tree smiling."

He handed over the wrapped item, and as Lyanna removed the cloth her face began to glow.

"For me?" She inspected the painted scabbard, the lightest of blues and adorned with small flowers of sapphire, but Lyanna did not linger long on the aesthetics. After inspecting the hilt fashioned as a white tree with two ruby-red eyes, she pulled the blade forth and gave out a whimper. "Valyrian steel."

"You should get the feel of it. Tomorrow you will need to use it." Stepping away, Rhaegar smiled, pleased at her reaction. "When you are ready someone will show you to your room, my lady."

Only when he had ascended the tower to his quarters did the smile drop, and he allowed himself an apprehensive moment.

The Tower of Joy was a simple place. The prince had taken a room for himself at the very top of the tower, the smallest of the four but with a ladder leading to a small lookout point on the roof. The remaining rooms were given to Oswell and Arthur to share, one to Lyanna, and then largest for the cook, the smith, and other servants to occupy.

There were no other rooms in the tower—the stables, the kitchens, and the storage areas were small wooden outbuildings. Lyanna Stark was a highborn daughter of a great lord and she had grown up in expansive Winterfell. He had never visited that great castle of the north, but he had read about it. Would somewhere as basic as her new accommodation serve or would she be disappointed?

Rhaegar thought about it while he soaked in the tub that had been set up for him in his room while he removed his travelling clothes, along with a great many other Lyanna Stark related thoughts.

Once he was clean and dressed, he headed down the stairs. As he exited the tower in the fading light he found Lyanna, Oswell, and Arthur already seated at a short wooden bench, seemingly waiting for him. The warm air was filled with the spicy scent of Dornish cooking coming from the kitchens nearby.

As he took the free space next to Lyanna and opposite Arthur, he found a small cup of wine filled and put before him. Before he took his first sip he grabbed a handful of olives and dried tomatoes, wanting to line his stomach and not lose his wits to the red liquid.

The two members of kings guard were listening to Lyanna give a breakdown of the training she'd had so far back in her northern home. Oswell seemed surprised while Arthur took it all in silently.

Rhaegar looked at the transformation of the riders that had steadily grown more worn and weary the further the road had taken them away from the Riverlands. All were wearing fresh clothing, and the grime and dust had been washed away. Arthur's short beard, he noted, had been trimmed, while Oswell still had the prickly growth that also adorned Rhaegar's own chin.

But neither of them had changed so much as Lyanna. Her dark hair was clean and freshly braided. Her skin glowed with the redness of a thorough scrubbing, surpassed only by the shine and brightness in her eyes, but that wasn't what caught his attention most.

He'd arranged for special attire to be left on her bed—boy's breeches, shirts, and long, practical lace up leather boots—thinking that his protégé would need them for her training. He had not expected her to ignore the new dresses that he'd also bought for her for their first evening meal in their new home.

Somehow, after having a few weeks to get to know her character, he was not surprised, but it did not lessen the effect of seeing her dressed as a male. If anything it made him more aware that she was female. After all, he had seen her remove her shirt and breeches in Harrenhal's godswood and the way her shirt gave away a hint of her curves made the memory vivid in his mind.

Even without this kind of memory, it seemed that Oswell also took note of Lyanna's form. This irked Rhaegar more than just a little.

Distraction came in the form of capon coated in fiery, crisp skin, soft flat breads with cheese, and roasted peppers that burned the mouth. The expression on Lyanna's face as she took her first bite amused the entire table, and she doused the flames with a generous gulp of Dornish red wine.

As late evening turned into night, the wine flowed and Oswell called for a song. Rhaegar was happy to oblige, and the ballad he sang of ancient battles and celebrated warriors went down well with his audience.

It wasn't long after when Lyanna yawned and made her excuses. Arthur and Oswell did likewise and the prince found himself at a lonely table in the dark, watching the Tower's servants clean away bowls and cups by torch light.

Realising how long it had been since he last slept in a real bed, Rhaegar ascended the tower. For once he ignored the neat pile of books he'd requested in favour of a mattress and blankets. Disrobing and climbing inside, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep almost immediately.

When he awoke to yellow and orange light shining through the narrow window, Rhaegar couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so well rested.

After finding last night's outfit, he made his way downstairs, surprising the servants who weren't expecting such an early riser. They panicked and fussed around him, despite his protestations, and he was already on his second plate of eggs fried with cheese, peppers, onions, and ham, washed down with fresh orange juice, when the others joined him.

After breaking their fast, Lyanna hurried them along to the point of the day when her training would begin. Rhaegar and Oswell and looked on from their seats in the shade as Arthur sparred with the young woman. One of the onlookers was genuinely surprised to see how good the lady was with a sword, though his fellow kings guard was clearly the more accomplished swordsman. The other observer, for once, felt strangely carefree.


	32. Chapter 32

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Thirty Two – On a Leash

King's Landing

Dazed and battle weary, Brandon and the other hostages had been taken to down into the dungeons after their brief audience with King Aerys. Brandon had searched the throne room for a sight of his sister or the thief that had taken her, but they were nowhere to be seen.

At least, not that Brandon could see. After the blow to the head he'd taken, he felt punch drunk, the room spinning and faces flashing in and out of view around him. He was so disorientated that it wasn't until a gruff voice behind him mumbled, "Three to a cell," and he found himself thrust into blackness that he thought to protest.

His armour was roughly removed from him, and struggling, he found himself chained in the dark, demanding to see his sister and to have Rhaegar brought down to him. His words fell on deaf ears.

Once his throat was sore from shouting, he then took the time to find out who it was that he was imprisoned with— his squire, Ethan Glover, and his friend, Elbert Arryn. A while later, he heard the voices of those kept in other cells, and felt relieved that at least some of his other friends had survived the massacre in the courtyard.

In the black cell, Brandon found that he now had plenty of time to dissect his actions and realise just how foolish he'd been. He took a moment to remember his men being pierced by arrows, killed like animals in a trap. It was all his fault, but then if it wasn't for the crown prince's actions he wouldn't have come here. Brandon's mind swung wildly between guilt and escalating hate towards his sister's kidnapper.

In the dark there was little to do but think or talk with Elbert and Ethan. First they talked about what had happened, then about home, and then about the small things that they missed from the outside world. As time limped by, the men found themselves confessing every little thing they'd ever done and regretted, and Brandon had more to get off his chest than most.

The guards weren't conversationalists; as they thrust a bowl of thick porridge into their prisoners' hands and poured water down their throats, the most you got was a grunt or a swift insult. Ask too many questions and you got a fist to the face. It didn't take Brandon long to learn that wasn't a good idea. If you were out cold the rats would get to your porridge first, and the guards didn't give second helpings.

How long they'd been in the cells, they had no idea. With no light to tell the difference between night and day it was impossible to tell how many times the sun had risen and set without a single ray reaching them.

Were they being held for trial...or for ransoms to be paid? Perhaps they were left, out of sight, to waste away into nothing and be forgotten—it certainly felt that way.

Then, eventually, there was commotion in the unseen hallway as names were called out, chains clanked, and prisoners were led away. The door to the cell opened and Brandon squinted hard at the sudden invasion of torchlight.

"Stark," the guard called, and as Brandon lifted his hand, other guards unlocked his bonds. The chains were then refastened around his wrists and ankles.

Stumbling to his unsteady feet, Brandon allowed himself to be led from the room, but as the guard closed the door behind them, he stopped and asked, "What about the other two?"

The guard looked down a list and counted. "Other two...what are their names?"

"Arryn and Glover."

"No Arryn and Glover on my list. Their fathers mustn't be here yet. Get a move on."

Panicking at the idea of Elbert and Ethan being left alone, Brandon shouted out that they wouldn't be forgotten, and that he'd make sure they were freed soon. With that, Brandon was led up stone stairs, squinting harder at the increasing daylight finding its way through cracks and small windows.

Father is here, Brandon thought. A second of hope that a ransom had been paid for his release soon dissipated. That seemed too easy—he'd made the mistake of following a road without resistance without questioning it before. He wouldn't be so naive this time.

A trial...that must be the reason. Brandon's spirits sank. No doubt the trial he was about to face would be overseen by the seven southern gods he didn't believe in, and decided by the king who was father to the man he'd came here to challenge.

Looking down at his hands, he saw the redness around his wrists and his bony, dirty fingers. Brandon's limbs felt weak. His period of incarceration had destroyed his chances of success by requesting a trial by combat.

Brandon was led into a room to find a number of his friends in a state of undress or getting there quickly. It didn't take long for the guards to unfasten his bonds and leave him in the hands of a middle-aged man who almost seemed as wide as he was fat.

The fat man began to remove Brandon's soiled breeches, jerkin and shirt. He would have complained but he could see Jeffory Mallister sitting in a tin bath, having water poured over him. Being chained up with a limited range of movement wasn't good for hygiene, and the thought of sloughing off some of the build up of dirt was worth the humiliation of being naked.

Once he was devoid of clothes, it distressed Brandon to see exactly what his prison diet had done to him, and he was glad to take his turn in the bath just so he could submerge his emaciated form under the water.

Judging by Jeffory's face, pallid and hollow, his friends were in as bad a state as Brandon was himself.

As the fat man poured a jug of cool water over his head, Brandon opened his mouth and gladly swallowed it.

After he reached an acceptable level of clean, he was brought new clothing and the armour that had been taken from him when he arrived. Although it was nice to feel like he was regaining some of his former strength as his familiar direwolf emblazoned breastplate was strapped to him, it became very obvious that he couldn't fill it out in the way he used to. Still, to the untrained eye, maybe it would hide his diminished state.

The prisoners were lined up in the corridor. Most were subdued, but one or two managed to raise a smile at a number of sarcastic observations from Kyle Royce. The smiles ended after Kyle was called up first, and he was taken to face whatever fate waited him before the king.

Brandon looked at everyone, searching their faces for any sign of resentment over the situation he had led them all into. If they felt it, it wasn't written on their expressions. The Stark heir also spared a thought for those who had perished in the courtyard who had not had the luck to see the black cells. The line dwindled until Jeffory Mallister was called up, leaving Brandon on his own, and as he waited his own turn he thought about Elbert and Ethan still in the dark below.

He wouldn't forget them. If he got out of this alive, if by the will of the old gods he made it through this trial, then he would pay however rich a ransom the king wished to lay on their head. During his time down there with them he'd bared his soul. He didn't doubt for a second that if Ethan or Elbert were in his place now, they'd be thinking the same.

And then the time came. His name was called and the guards pulled on his chains.

"Wait," the soldier who had called him added. "The king wants you to use this—says he wants his wolf brought in on a leash."

Brandon looked at the thick leather strip that was passed to the guard. Did they expect him to crawl on all fours like a dog, too, or would they let him keep a little of his dignity?

Awkwardly, he made his way out of the dungeons and allowed himself to be led through corridors into the throne room, the leather pulling at his neck.

What had happened to the others? None of them had been subjected to a leash or another unusual request, but then Brandon had been the ring leader, the one who had shouted for Rhaegar to come out.

Brandon dared to hope that he was being made an example of, and that the others had been sent home with their tails between their legs and their heads still firmly in place.

As he looked around at the courtiers gathered before the iron throne, their eyes told him that his hopes were in vain. Ladies clutched handkerchiefs to their mouths, a desperate expression partially hidden behind the cloth. The men either didn't meet his gaze or if they did, they gave off a sense of pity.

After a brief moment of looking down at his feet, Brandon lifted his head and stared straight ahead. His father came into view right at the fore of the crowd—Brandon would recognise his armour anywhere, although it had been many years since he'd seen him wearing it. How many times had he stared at it as a boy, dreaming that one day he might be a great knight with his own suit of plate?

Lord Rickard Stark's mouth was set in a grim line, but the rest of his face was as stoic as ever; his skin had an ashy hue that hadn't been present before Brandon rode off on the ill-fated road to Riverrun. For all the armour gave the impression of a mature man, aging but still strong, a son could see the stress his father had been under. He looked old.

Brandon hadn't realised that he'd picked up his pace until the guard yanked sharply on the leather leash, temporarily choking the air out of him and snapping his neck back sharply. Brandon gave him a look that would curdle milk.

But someone else found the moment amusing. A shrill laugh rang out, and Brandon found himself looking into the unnaturally wide eyes of the king. There was something off about him that made Brandon think that maybe the ruler of the seven kingdoms had quite possibly lost his mind.

That did not bode well for Brandon's trial. It seemed that the king had taken great pleasure in the proceedings so far, and Brandon imagined that Jeffory, Kyle, and the rest had not fared well.

Finally, in front of the iron throne, Brandon gave his father a long, meaningful look as his leather leash was fastened to an iron ring embedded in the floor.

"I trust you've been treating my son in a manner appropriate to a noble prisoner, your Grace." The way his father spoke said that he could see that Brandon had been less than well cared for.

Storm clouds crossed the king's face. "He and his friends have been kept in a manner appropriate to their actions, Lord Stark." He pointed his wizened finger. "You have been summoned here to not only see your son face trial, but to answer for your own faults in raising such a man—a man who dare defy his ruler and the heir to the throne. So both you and your son will face trial together, like his companions and their fathers before them."

The king gave a sick smile, and the murmurs of the crowd gave Brandon the impression that by now the spikes on the walls around the city were decorated with the heads of his companions and a number of great lords.

His father seemed unperturbed by this. "My son and I, we are of the North, and we do not worship the Seven...and I do not trust that you will be a fair and unbiased judge."

The king made to sit up, but it seemed that one of the swords that made up the iron throne had caught him. King Aerys cradled his hand to his chest and his verbal response was temporarily forgotten.

"Therefore I claim the right to trial by combat." His father's voice rang out loud and clear. The courtiers gasped and talked amongst themselves. Many looked at Brandon and debated his ability to fight for both his and his father's survival after however long it had been since his defeat in the courtyard.

The king would have the members of the king's guard at his disposal to fight in his name, and indeed it seemed that Lord Stark's invoking of his rights thrilled him. The king's guard were the best knights in the land, and the honour was so great that noble born men were happy to give up their lands to serve the order. In his weakened state, Brandon wouldn't have a chance.

"You have that right, Lord Stark. Who do you name as your champion?"

Brandon felt the king's attention firmly on him.

"I name myself."

Even the king seemed shook up by Lord Stark's answer.

"No," Brandon yelled. "You can't."

"I can and I will," Lord Rickard said defiantly, resting on the hilt of the sword around his waist.

King Aerys shifted in his chair and the room fell silent until he eventually spoke. "So be it. You have your champion, now let me choose mine...ever since Aegon the Conqueror first came to these shores the Targaryen champion has been...fire." Aerys smiled wide. "Bring wood and a sturdy post."

There was a moment of confusion. But then a number of gold cloaked city guards surrounded the Warden of the North, though he stood firm and did not struggle.

"Fire? But how can he fight fire? This is not a fair trial!" Brandon made his voice heard.

"Hmm, Ser Stark. You are right. Your father will have no chance against my chosen champion, if he had a chance against any other I might have chosen, but never let it be said that I robbed you of your chance to prove your innocence. Gold cloak!" The king shouted at one of the city guards. "Leave your sword just out of Ser Brandon's reach. No, a little further."

The king then looked Brandon in the eyes. "If you can reach it and cut down your father before he is cooked in his armour, then you both have your freedom."

Brandon swallowed and looked at the sword as a pyre was built behind his father. It was too much for Brandon and he lurched forward to the weapon on the floor, only to stop abruptly as the leather squeezed around his throat with a pressure that took his breath away.

Stepping backwards and loosening the grip around his neck, Brandon watched his father shaking his head as his hands were bound behind the post rising from a hill of wood and straw.

"This is madness. Stop this. This is not a trial."

Brandon looked at the audience, but the room was silent other than his own cries and the clanks and creaks as his father was tied to the stake. He made another try for the sword, only to lose his footing as he tried to keep his neck within the reach of his leash.

Lord Stark finally in place, the eager king looked as if he could barely contain his enthusiasm.

"Burn him."

A torch was thrust into the pyre amongst the straw, and Lord Rickard shuffled a little closer to the post, though he still kept his head held high. Someone had at least had the courtesy to close his visor, and he stood there, looking as noble and virile as he ever had.

Brandon lay on the floor and tried to stretch an extended leg towards the sword that promised freedom for both him and his father, but the hilt was angled away and he couldn't get a grip on the blade.

As the flames grew higher and smoke lingered in the air, Brandon changed his approach and instead turned his attention to where the leather leash was knotted around the iron ring. At first he tried to unfasten it, but it was too tight—perhaps from the pressure he had put on it when reaching for the sword.

Tugging and frantically trying to loosen it, Brandon caught sight of the swirl of grey surrounding his father, but he was unmoving, as upright as ever. There was no screaming, but then a slight twitch from his hands told that Lord Stark was still alive, but barely.

Smoke made a man drowsy, stole the air from his lungs, and Brandon prayed that this would be the case with his father. Though he hadn't given up hope on saving him yet. Brandon tugged at the leather, but found it was still sturdily attached. In his desperation he even tried chewing through, but the leather was too thick.

Thinking for a moment, Brandon felt frantic as he saw the pyre glowing brighter out of the corner of his eye. Was father looking at him from behind the visor, willing him to find a way to keep them both alive?

The problem was that he could just reach the sword with his foot, but he didn't have enough grip to pull it nearer. And then it came to him. Brandon began unfastening his boots, and then inched along the floor until the leather extended as far as it could without choking.

His bare toes touched cool metal, but as he tried to get a grip with both feet it was still that little bit out of reach. Brandon panted and felt the tightness of the leather about his neck.

A little bit further—an inch, maybe two—and the sword would be his. He would only need those extra inches for a few moments, long enough to drag the blade closer.

Brandon pushed himself a little further away from the metal ring toward the sword, feeling the leather dig into his neck, stopping him from drawing air into his lungs. For a second he panicked at the sensation, but then he forced himself to ignore the natural reaction to return himself to safety.

Though his head was pulled back, his eyes staring at the ceiling above, the side of his foot found a sharp edge. Bringing in his other foot, he stopped abruptly as he knocked the blade.

Unable to speak, he mouthed a curse, his chest feeling as it was about to explode. A little further, a little more pain, and Brandon felt a toenail scrape under the metal. Clamping his other foot on the blade from above, he pulled and the sword scraped closer—enough for him to stretch out for once he could breath.

_I've done it_, he thought. _I can cut my leash and rescue my father_. Brandon then tried to crawl back, but his limbs refused to obey. His arms flapped like fishes on the floor, until Brandon brought his heavy, clumsy hands to his throat.

_So close...I can't give up now_, he thought, but he felt himself fading even as he tried to will himself to move.

Small flakes of ash floated above him, but Brandon felt his body grow cold and numb, the heat from the fire seemingly distant. Night clouded his vision, and amongst the ash, Brandon could swear he saw flakes of snow falling.

_Home. Winterfell_, were the last thoughts to cross his mind as his body gave a final twitch.

~X~

As he watched the Stark boy kill himself, Aerys found himself confused.

He had enjoyed the display, watching the wolf knight squirm, become feral and desperate, but the manner of his end left the king feeling as if he had somehow been robbed of the chance to dispense justice.

Fire—that should have been his end. The wolf dared to challenge the dragon and he should have burned for it, not been strangled by his own leash.

Flames began to climb Lord Rickard's legs, yet not once had he cried out. A more reasonable side to King Aerys suggested that he was already long dead, that maybe his life had given out before the flames had even touched him.

The laughing tree growing from the stone wall in the corner of the room convinced him that this was all an act of defiance, a mockery. That the lord from the snowy north was vexing him by refusing to accept that he should die screaming and burning.

Aerys stared into the flames, finding himself entranced. They somehow crept along the stone floor, engulfing his court; his courtiers looked at him, seemingly blissfully aware that they were on fire.

No, they weren't on fire, the rational side of King Aerys reminded him. It was just the flames showing him that, should anyone defy him, he could and would burn them, too. He wished that someone would speak up so he could have another trial to demonstrate his dragon strength.

His king's guard shifted awkwardly. A number of women hid their faces behind handkerchiefs and fans. But not one person protested.

What else could he do?

Jon Arryn hadn't answered the demand, and he still held his heir in his dungeons—Elbert Arryn, the so called Darling of the Vale, beloved by all, popular.

King Aerys got to his feet and called for the final rebel to be brought before him.

Growing impatient, the pyre began to collapse under his former Warden of the North and the bonfire shrank the king's spirits with it. Aerys was about to call for the heads of the guards he'd sent when they returned, bringing a stinking and unkempt young man before him.

Was this Elbert Arryn or some peasant boy? Were his guards seeking to hoodwink him by bringing an imposter? The king couldn't be sure, but he would deal with the soldiers later.

"Elbert Arryn, for your part in the Stark rebellion, and for the treason of your uncle, you will decorate a spike at the gates of the city. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head."

That felt better, Aerys thought, as the sword sliced through the struggling boy's neck. It pleased him to see the final expression of fear in his subject's eyes; his blood seemingly quenched the flames about the room and the laughing tree grew solemn and silent.

Feeling strong and in the mood for more justice, Aerys descended the steps from the throne.

"I hereby name Lord Arryn of the Vale a traitor, and demand that his head be brought to me—by whom, I care not. I will reward whoever carries out this service handsomely." Lord Arryn would burn well.

The king thought for a moment. He should wipe out the entire Stark and Arryn families, and anyone else who might be inspired to continue their cause. The Arryn line was almost devoid of male heirs, and no doubt Rhaegar was in the process of making sure any child from the Stark girl was half-dragon.

But Lord Stark's second son, Eddard, would now be the new Lord Stark, and he was very much under the guardianship of Lord Arryn. As was the young Lord of the Stormlands, Robert Baratheon. If Aerys remember correctly the latter had the potential to be a great warrior. His seat, Storm's End, was far too close to the Targaryen held Dragonstone for his liking.

"I also call for the heads of his two young wards—Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the son of the traitor, Rickard Stark, and Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End."

Satisfied, Aerys gave Rickard's blackened, slumped armour one last sneer and then left the room. The laughing tree that seemed to haunt both his waking and sleeping hours followed him to his chambers, but the king was glad that it didn't have the heart to say a single word.

This pleased him. All in all, it had been a very agreeable day.


	33. Chapter 33

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Thirty Three –Rebellion

The Eeyrie

Robert Baratheon walked down the winding stairs, barely keeping his feet in his urgency to answer the summons Jon Arryn had sent via a servant.

Was there news? Had someone found Lyanna? Rhaegar? What kind of news? Was she okay, or was there a more sinister reason? Was she with child?

Robert counted the months. It was possible.

It didn't matter. No matter what Rhaegar had done to her, it wasn't Lyanna's fault. She'd been taken against her will.

He paused for a moment. But could he raise a child fathered on her by another, knowing how Rhaegar had defiled her, humiliated her, made a mockery of Robb himself?

Racking his brain, he came to the conclusion that Lyanna might not like the idea of raising that child herself, should it exist. If that was the case, then the prince could take care of his own bastard child.

Robert felt a slight twinge. It could be that he himself had left a bastard in a whore's belly at some point. And had he ever taken any steps to care for his illegitimate issue, or even to find out whether he had any?

I'll make sure I find out, he thought, spurred on by the thought of Lyanna left abandoned and pregnant, though she was far from being a slut like those Robb had laid with thus far. Any bastard son or daughter of mine will at least have some provision made for them, even if it's just a payment to make sure they have a roof over their head, that their mother can care for them, and that they at least have the chance to learn a trade or carve out a reasonable existence.

Robert leapt over the last few steps into the corridor to almost crash into Ned. No doubt he'd had the same message to come to Lord Arryn.

"What is it? Did you tell you what the message is?" Robert blurted, as he narrowly avoided the collision with his friend.

Ned shook his head, his eyes wide and fearful, his posture stiff. It wasn't until that moment that Robb considered the news might be about the other captured Stark sibling. Robb laid a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder.

"It could be anything," he said in a calmer voice, as they both walked through the heavy wooden doors to find Jon sitting at his desk.

Immediately, Jon got to his feet. Robert looked at his expression. It seemed grave, but there was a strange determined set to Lord Arryn's jaw that Robb had never seen before.

"Robert. Eddard..." Jon's voice softened as he spoke Ned's name, and if Robb could sense the concern, then he was sure Ned could, too. He tightened his grip on his brother but not by blood's shoulder. "I have news from King's Landing."

Jon held up a small, curled piece of parchment. A message sent by raven.

After sucking a few deep breaths, Ned whispered, "Brandon," in a broken voice.

Jon never took his eyes off his northern ward as he unscrolled the parchment and read it aloud. "Elbert executed for treason. Lord Rickard Stark burned for treason—his eldest son died trying to save him. The king calls for the heads of Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and Robert Baratheon."

Robert felt Ned sway and used his weight to keep his friend upright.

"Both?" Ned shook his head in disbelief. "No, it can't be."

Jon walked around the desk, his face full of sympathy. There was a moment of sombre silence, and it was left to Robb to break it.

"Your nephew..."

Jon looked at the floor. "I knew the likely outcome when I did not present myself at King's Landing, just as I anticipated the call for my head as a rebel against the crown. I did not anticipate that both your father and your brother would die, Eddard, and that the king would want both of your heads, too. I am sorry."

Ned shrugged off Robb's shoulder, turning and walking out of the room. Robb made to follow but Jon whispered, "Wait. Give him a few moments. You remember how it feels to find out you are an orphan."

Robb's mind went back to the time when he was told that his father's ship had broken apart in Shipbreaker's Bay, within sight of home. He'd been on a mission for his cousin, King Aerys, to find a wife for his son, Prince Rhaegar. Rage bubbled up within him at the thought of the Targaryen habit of taking his loved ones from him.

"What do we do?"

As expected, Jon suggested they hold out in the Eeryie—the place they called home, the unimpregnable fortress built in such a high and precarious place that it was unthinkable that anyone without a flying beast, like a dragon, could ever take it by force. But Robb was surprised when Jon continued, "For now, at least until we determine a plan."

Robb looked him in the eyes, puzzled, which Jon saw.

"We could hold out for a good long while here, which I would be happy to do if it were just my head that was called for, but you and Ned, you are young men and have not seen enough of the world to shut yourself away from it. No, you are more than young men—you are Lords of the Stormlands and the North. Ned's bannermen, especially, will look to him for leadership. I do not doubt that it was more than just Elbert and his family that died that day."

"You want us to rebel? Against the crown?" Robert felt as if somehow his surrogate father had lost his mind, but it stirred something inside him. Something burned as he toyed with the idea of smashing Targaryens with his war hammer—one Targaryen in particular.

"I failed Elbert, but I will not fail you and the new Lord Stark. I fear that the king begins to lose his grip on his wits, grow vicious, and I cannot see any other way we can keep our heads other than to rebel. Eddard must return to Winterfell as soon as he is able. No doubt the northern lords will want to see action. And you, Robert, you must raise the lords of the Stormlands. Your lords."

Robb thought for a moment. "We're going to war?"

"Yes, the Vale, the Stormlands, and the North must rise up against the crown. The crown prince is missing, and I know how you feel about him, Robert, but Rhaegar will see sense if we can draw him out. Make him take responsibility for his father's actions. Maybe it might help us find Lyanna?"

As if he needed the slightest convincing, Jon had him persuaded with his final line. In fact, he would have went to his room and collected his things that very instant, but Lord Arryn made him wait, talking tactics as they sat and ate a meal together. Ned did not join them.

For the first time, as he used a capon leg to point out strategic locations on an imaginary map, Robert felt like the capable ward. He might never have had a talent for poetry or reading great tomes, but in war games he had always excelled.


	34. Chapter 34

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Sorry, very short chapter this time. Think it's best just to show a glimpse of these two, but didn't fit with previous chapter.**

~X~

Chapter Thirty Four – Two Broken Hearts

Riverrun

Lord Hoster held onto his oldest daughter tightly as she kneeled at his feet, wailing into his cloak. He reached down and rested his hand on her red, braided hair.

She loved that fool from the north, Brandon Stark, and it had pained him to break the news he'd received by raven.

It sat very uncomfortable with him that Lord Rickard had been executed. The Warden of the North was no fool, yet he was just as dead as his son. He'd never seemed treasonous to Hoster—in fact, the only way in which Lord Stark could be faulted was in the wildness of his children.

The Stark children—one son was dead, the daughter scandalously taken by the crown prince for whatever ends, another son to inherit but whose head was called for by royal decree, and the final son still a mere boy.

The Lord of the Riverlands thought about how he'd been unable to stop his youngest daughter from losing her wits after the bastard that Petyr Baelish had left in her belly was dealt with. As mad as she had become, he thought about what her behaviour might bring about if she married a high lord and found herself in court. If she spoke out around the king, it could well be Lord Hoster that was burned before the iron throne.

And now his remaining sane daughter was falling apart before him. He'd had such high hopes for them both, and now—

No, Catelyn would be fine once she had cried it out and he found her a more balanced, suitable husband. A great lord who deserved her, and who would allow her to be the great lady she deserved to be. The next betrothal would be on his terms.

And Lysa...well, maybe she might recover...in time. He would have to be careful who he married her to. Hoster wanted a great lord for her, also, but it would have to be one that could manage her ill tempers and irrational statements.

At least he had proof of her fertility, and that she could bear children...

No, they were not lost. There was hope for his daughters yet, Lord Hoster consoled himself, and looked down at Catelyn wailing.

~X~

High Hermitage, Dorne

Ashara held Brandon close to her chest, the occasional dry, silent sob shuddering through her body. Anything more and her son would wake—he wasn't the most settled child. Wylla, the nursemaid, said that she'd never known such a demanding babe, and that she was glad to have help with him.

After being brought before her mother and father with a squalling newborn baby, she'd been glad to have the prince by her side. If it wasn't for Rhaegar and Arthur's eloquent arguments she would probably be married to the first nobleman who'd paused to take a second look, so desperate had her parents been to hide her disgrace.

What disgrace? Ashara thought as she looked at her unusually peaceful son. I've been blessed with a strong and healthy child by the man who owns my heart. Her entire body clenched as the knowledge that this was the only piece of Brandon she had left, or could hope to have now that he was gone. And it was certain that she wouldn't be allowed to remain here at High Hermitage indefinitely.

The story that had been put about was that Ashara had given birth to a girl child—after all, most of King's Landing knew of her pregnancy and her sudden departure—but the babe had died. In a month or so, happier tidings would come from Starfall that her older, childless cousin's wife had finally given birth to a son. An heir for a branch of the Dayne family that would have otherwise died out.

Gerold, they were going to call him. It didn't suit him—to Ashara he would be Brandon Snow, named for his father. Illegitimate children from Dorne were given the name Sand, but this babe was so full of the spirit of the direwolf that it seemed only natural to give him a northern bastard's name.

But she must try harder just to call him that only in her own mind, because to the world he would be Gerold Dayne.

Her cousin's wife found her presence awkward, and indeed Ashara found it hard to let Baby Brandon's adoptive mother take him from her, but learn she must. Only by being able to let go and let someone else claim him as her own would she be able to stay here a little longer. She'd started by allowing Wylla, the nursemaid, to take him and feed him more often, though Ashara's arms still itched to have him back.

She wondered how she would fare once his "birth" was announced and she had to watch her cousin parade him around as his.

Ashara looked down at Baby Brandon and with a few deep breaths, she tried to fill the empty, yawning void of grief with the minute details of his face. There was much of his father in him, but he had his mother's fair hair. He was already getting so big—that her cousin could manage to convince others that he was newborn seemed beyond belief.

Or maybe Ashara just couldn't forget the image of her brother laying the bloody bundle on her chest? Her first thought had been that he'd been so small, so tiny, though he hadn't stayed that way for long. Brandon had a voracious appetite, and although she missed the contact whilst feeding, having Wylla on hand meant that Ashara could at least sleep for a few hours interrupted during the night.

He would grow up to be as brave and strong as his father, and be a great knight some day. His official mother and father would love him as parents who had a miracle child would, and from afar Ashara would love him, too. He would always be her everything—her reason for living, even if he never knew it.

Her stomach twisted as she tried not to think about whether "Gerold" would realise his true heritage, or whether he'd be entirely ignorant of the fact he was son of Ser Brandon Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne.

Did the Starks know about her babe, or had the secret of her tryst with Brandon died with him?

Rhaegar had ridden north, but thankfully not to force Ned Stark to marry her for the seed his older brother had left in her belly. Instead he had whisked Lyanna Stark away to the Tower of Joy, the place where Ashara had given birth, loaned to the prince by her family in total secrecy. A thank you for his assistance in the matter of the unwanted Stark bastard that they wanted to brush under the reeds.

Guilt washed over Ashara. Was she indirectly responsible for her love's death? Or would Rhaegar have taken his Stark lover anyway, only hidden her in a different place? Thinking back to Harrenhal, she remembered the prince crowning Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty, and Lyanna acting suspiciously, seemingly up to no good.

No, Rhaegar had fallen for her at the same time as Ashara was falling for the older brother. If he felt the intensity of feeling Ashara did herself, and given his stronger position as a man and the crown prince, then he would have taken his Stark lover anyway. Brandon Stark was doomed the second he took off for King's Landing.

The news via raven hadn't said much, but by now stories of what happened in the Red Keep were filtering all the way to Dorne, carried by the lips of travellers. They said that the king had burned Lord Stark, and in trying to rescue his father Brandon had strangled himself whilst reaching for a sword.

I hope the prince truly loves Lyanna Stark as I love Brandon Stark, because nothing less would be worth the price paid, Ashara thought. Her love, his father, numerous other lords and their sons were dead because of it—even innocent Ned Stark's head was called for.

Ned. A shaky smile pulled at her lips for a brief second as she remembered the second Stark son, the boy that was now Lord Stark of Winterfell.

Ashara pressed her lips to her son's head.

"You have your father's strength and my colouring, but if you take anything else from your true family, please let it be your uncle's sense of honour."


	35. Chapter 35

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Thanks to RhaenysB for mentioning the matter of Ashara's hair colour. I have to admit that when I started writing this I hadn't read A Dance With Dragons and all the way through I had it in my head that she was a lot like Amalthea in The Last Unicorn (showing my age now). Because her hair plays a part in this story, I'm going to keep this deviation from canon. **

~X~

Chapter Thirty Five – Joy

With the glaring sun beating down on her armour, Lyanna avoided blow after blow from Oswell. Yet with the effort she put into defending, she struggled to find the chance to swing an offensive swing herself. Finally, both out of breath and weary, the exchange came to a halt when Ser Oswell's blade paused inches from her neck, and Lyanna roared in frustration.

But this was good. How many times had she fought Benjen and felt as if she wasn't tested? Now her training was in full flow, and facing three celebrated knights a test was certainly what she was receiving.

Lyanna was pleased when Oswell removed his helm, and his red face told that he hadn't found her an easy match. Nothing was more frustrating than giving it her all only to see that Ser Arthur, the famed Sword of the Morning, hadn't broken a sweat, and still managed to speak calmly and evenly whilst pointing out what she was doing wrong.

She was a privileged girl, not only to have such a fine teacher but to be in this position in the first place. All her life she'd cursed the fact she'd been born a girl, but now she had everything she'd ever wanted regardless of her femininity. After years of fighting her predetermined place in society, Lyanna found that she no longer had any cause to rebel against. Now she had truly found her place in the world, she was able to be at ease with being of the "fairer sex".

Not that she was ever able to forget despite the fact she'd now forgone gowns for the male clothing Rhaegar had provided her with. For all his instruction was second to none, Ser Arthur held back when he fought her, and not just because of the vast gulf in their swordsmanship.

Oswell reminded her in a different way. When they crossed swords he didn't hold back—Lyanna imagined that he treated her much as he would any trainee he might face on this sandy courtyard, and she was thankful for it. She didn't want special treatment, only the chance to be the best knight she could.

No, he had taken over Brandon's role, teasing her and embarrassing her in much the same way as her older brother would. Although Oswell's cynical humour was much darker, and there was often something in the way he looked at her that felt less than brotherly. But she was already spoken for, he often said, and in a tone that implied it wasn't Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End he was referring to.

The reminders of the family and responsibilities she'd left behind always stung, but there was no doubt in Lyanna's mind that this had always been meant to happen. This was her place, in a simple tower hidden in the Dornish mountains, being trained by the greatest swordsman on earth, the crown prince, Oswell...her new family and friends.

At other times her surrogate brother wasn't so subtle with his teasing. Like the time she'd rushed downstairs, excited after receiving her second instalment of plate—a sleeve made of the most highly polished metal and a matching breast plate, studded with sapphire and metal flowers to match her blade. The breast plate had been made to fit her form exactly, and as she proudly displayed her armoured form to her three tutors, Oswell had been the one to burst her bubble by smirking and commenting, "Nice teats," much to the embarrassment of everyone else.

And then there was the day Rhaegar had been supervising her archery lesson. Already capable, the targets had been moved a considerable distance away, and after falling just short of hitting dead centre, Rhaegar had attempted to improve her positioning. With his hand on her shoulder, his face so close that wisps of white blonde hair caught on the wind tickled her face as he whispered instructions, Lyanna had felt herself grow red; the next three arrows landed far wide of the target.

Later, Oswell brought up the matter during their evening meal and had gotten a cupful of wine in his face in return. His constant innuendo with regard to the prince's motivations for bringing her here were a sore point, and the fact that her moon's blood had come upon her the next day certainly hadn't helped her temper.

Rhaegar had been nothing but completely honourable toward her. At times his generosity made Lyanna wonder. The obviously expensive custom made suit of armour that was almost complete, the Valyrian steel sword, the opportunity he'd laid at her feet, he'd asked for nothing in return for any of it.

The only time he came closer than across the wooden table where they dined was to help her with her swordsmanship, her archery, to give her advice on how she might reposition her lance on the rare occasions it wasn't him she was jousting against. There was absolutely no reason to doubt that she was truly here to learn to be a great knight.

As thrilled as she should be about it, there was the mortifying fact that the day of the disastrous archery session, the reason she'd been so distracted had been that she was remembering the time she'd stumbled into his arms under the oak tree at Harrenhal. And that most nights, despite the exhaustion of training every day, she fell asleep musing over the perfection that was Rhaegar Targaryen's face.

She'd become that which she'd held so much in disdain—a silly young girl fawning over the handsome, fairytale prince, though it wasn't really the prince that she'd become infatuated with. The more the Dornish sun browned his skin, and the more weathered his black jerkin stitched in red, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, became, the more the prince resembled the man in the brown hood from Harrenhal. The man that had been Lyanna Stark's first kiss so many times over in her dreams.

It was a stupid thing to dream. After all, the prince was married to Princess Elia, who was back in King's Landing looking after their son and daughter, Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Still, it was hard to ignore the fact that her entire body, from the top of her head right down to her toes, felt alive whenever he was in sight.

It tingled now as Rhaegar in his ornate black armour, the rubies on his breastplate glittering, stepped up. Oswell shot Lyanna a quick look before nodding his head respectfully and stepping over to the shade to watch.

Lyanna tucked her braid back inside her helm, putting it back on her head and hiding her blushes behind the visor, only her eyes visible through the slit in the ornate polished metal.

Rhaegar regarded her for a moment. "You will usually be physically weaker than your opponent, but what is your advantage?"

"I can be faster. If my opponent is wearing standard plate they will almost always be slower and less manoeuvrable." The range of movement in her custom armour had been pointed out to her at great length, as well as cautioning her over the fact that also gave her more weak spots to target. Lyanna swung her sword twice to demonstrate her point.

"Good. Remember, even Valyrian steel will struggle against metal plate. Make the most of your speed to find the chance for a good thrust at the joints at my neck, my waist, under my arm..."

Rhaegar pushed his own helm down and drew his sword.

He was a good swordsman, although not quite a match for Ser Arthur. Lyanna couldn't think of anyone who would be a match for Ser Arthur in a fair swordfight. The Prince was textbook perfect, and Lyanna knew that he'd read almost every word written on how to best kill with a weapon—he had loaned her a number of books on the subject, which Lyanna read on an evening to try and eradicate Rhaegar's face from her mind before falling asleep.

But that wasn't how Lyanna learned best. Every time Oswell, Rhaegar, and Arthur beat her, she made sure that she had taught herself something new. I will beat Oswell one day, she told herself, and sooner rather than later. Then another day it will be the prince. Lyanna stopped short of adding Arthur to her list, at least at sword fighting, as she had the feeling she could best him at jousting for sure.

As expected, Rhaegar won the exchange, but a defeated Lyanna dissected his fighting style in her mind afterwards. The prince had a habit of leaving his ruby encrusted chest unprotected, and theoretically, if she had an armour piercing blade then she would have a clear shot at his heart.

"Tomorrow, my lady, we'll pit you against Oswell with a war hammer. It is a very different weapon and it takes a different approach to defend against. Did you read the book...the one with the red binding?"

"Yes," Lyanna answered quickly as both she and Rhaegar left the training courtyard, removing helms, gauntlets and greaves. "Greater reach and capable of devastating blows, but slow."

Rhaegar gave a wide smile, and as always Lyanna melted inside. The prince had been smiling more often of late, and the effect was just as forceful as any blow from a war hammer.

~X~

Later, once the sun was long gone and the plates from their evening meal cleared away, Lyanna had undressed for bed. Wandering her cosy room in just her shirt, her braid unfastened and her hair falling in even waves about her shoulders, she searched fruitlessly for the book she'd discussed with Rhaegar earlier.

Finally, Lyanna decided that she must have returned it. Eager to please her tutors, she cursed the fact that she'd be unable to revise its contents before falling asleep.

She paused for a short while, looking down at her bare legs and soiled shirt, before reaching for her previously discarded breeches. Hastily tugging a few fingers through her long hair and tucking her shirt in, Lyanna grabbed a candle and tentatively opened the door.

Maybe it was more than a little appropriate, but she was sure that the prince, with the lack of formality and protocol that had developed, wouldn't mind if she quickly stopped by his room and asked to borrow the book once more. After all, it would demonstrate how seriously she was taking her training. It had almost nothing at all to do with the fact that the thought of seeing him once more before bedtime made her stomach skip up the winding staircase a few steps ahead of her feet.

Standing before the wooden door, Lyanna dried her palms on her hips before rapping gently with her knuckles. There was a brief rustle from within before the door opened,

"Thank you, Atos, that will be...all..."

Lyanna's eyes dropped as she saw that the prince had removed his shirt and stood there bare-chested. Feeling her cheeks grow red, she looked to the left as Rhaegar, equally taken aback, stammered a choked "my lady" in greeting.

"Forgive the intrusion, my prince, but the book you spoke of earlier, I was wondering if I might borrow it once more."

"Yes...of course." Rhaegar opened the door wide and gestured to the bookshelf. As Lyanna hesitantly stepped inside, he rushed over to the other side of the room, and to her dismay he quickly pulled his black shirt. It pleased Lyanna that he did not bother to fasten it, and the garment showed much of his milky-skinned bare chest.

Their gazes met and a thick atmosphere grew in the room. To diffuse the moment, Lyanna turned back to the books and her eyes grew wide. "So many..."

The room was disorganised, strewn with candles, and various opened books and scrolls on every flat surface, including the bed.

The prince stepped forward, a solemn look on his face. "Yes, and I haven't read half as much as I should since we arrived here."

Lyanna's eyebrows rose. "Is that so? Well, appearances would say otherwise. I would say you read too much."

Her pulse thrummed as he grew closer and then reached upwards to a high shelf. In such close proximity, and without armour concealing him, she noted that her recollection of the way he smelled under the oak tree at Harrenhal hadn't done him justice at all, although she had been holding Howland's disguise at the time.

The prince looked down at her, and then she realised that he was holding out the red bound book she'd come for.

She took it with a smile and a thank you, and as she reluctantly stepped away her eyes found a ladder leading up through a small trap door in the ceiling. His eyes followed hers.

"Sorry, you've discovered my secret hideaway, where I avoid all the books I try so hard to neglect." He smiled just a little.

"What's up there?" Lyanna asked before remembering herself. She was an improperly attired girl invading the private quarters of the crown prince of the seven kingdoms when he was less than dressed himself.

Rhaegar crossed the room to the ladders and put a foot on the bottom run. "Would you like to see?"

Lyanna did not have to be asked twice, and abandoning the book, she eagerly climbed up after the prince, gasping a little as she passed through the wooden-framed square into the night air.

Above, countless stars littered the black velvet sky above, slightly lightening to darkest blue around the edges, where if you squinted you could just make out the jagged black mountains. The moon, low in the sky, subtly highlighted parts of the hidden scenery in silver, the view the same on all sides of the round tower.

"I can see why you'd come up here so often." Lyanna continued to look around, trying not to be too aware of Rhaegar watching her reactions.

At the base of the tower, there was the orange glow of torchlight and the sound of the servants preparing for the next day. Lyanna realised that voices in the courtyard below were easily heard, and felt her stomach twist as she recalled some of the things she and Oswell had discussed after the prince had seemingly gone to bed.

Looking to the side sheepishly, she caught a glimpse of a small yellow light far in the distance.

"What is that?"

Rhaegar came and stood mere inches from her, and it wasn't just the evening chill in the air that gave Lyanna goosebumps.

"A traveller's torch. The Tower of Joy was originally built as a watch tower. During the day you can see for miles, but it's possibly even more effective at night. No one with the sense they were born with would attempt to come through those mountain passes without a torch, and if there's a light, well then you're guaranteed to see it from here."

Lyanna made a noise to show that she approved, and continued to look around. Her gaze travelled upwards to the stars. Rhaegar pointed out a few constellations, informing Lyanna that the Warrior was in fact known as the Warrioress in another eastern culture, and that being immortalised in the stars was her reward for proving that she was as great if not greater than any male fighter that walked the earth.

Having a few moments pause, Lyanna finally turned to the prince and said what was on her mind. "Why did you bring me here? Why me?"

Rhaegar looked her straight in the eye and for a short while he said nothing, though it was obvious that he was working through what he wanted to say.

Eventually, in a quiet voice he asked, "Do you believe in prophecies, my lady?"

Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, Lyanna's brow furrowed. "I've never given them much thought. I've certainly never been one of those women who goes running off to alleged seers to ask if and when they'll be married, and to whom."

The breeze whipped up a few strands of silver across the prince's face. "Well, I do believe in prophecies. Very much so. In fact you could say I am consumed by them." He turned away and looked far into the distance, but Lyanna couldn't tell what it was he was so focused on. "I live my life by them, and if I didn't believe in what I'd read down the years so strongly, then no doubt I'd have grown to be a very different man. They have shaped me, moulded me, and I aspire to be the type of man—the type of king—that could rise to the challenges I believe the future holds."

Taking a few breaths, Lyanna thought before saying, "What do prophecies have to do with me?"

With a serious expression, Rhaegar turned around. "Everything and nothing." Lyanna gave him a few seconds to elaborate on his cryptic statement. "At Harrenhal I had a dream. I dreamt that I was here, at the Tower of Joy, and that I was a black dragon. I was felled by a knight in ice armour riding a direwolf.

"At first I thought the direwolf knight was your brother, Ser Brandon, and that's why I accepted his challenge, but then I realised that was not the case. I had almost dismissed it as just a dream when I discovered you were the Knight of the Laughing Tree—"

"One of the Knights of the Laughing Tree," Lyanna corrected. "I only jousted once."

"True, but as I saw you on the field after jousting against your brother, I knew there was a touch of destiny about you. Discovering that it was you, a young woman with minimal training that had done so well against Ser Aenys, I knew then that it was you. In my dream, with my final breath I burned you alive, and after the snows came, a blue rose grew amongst our bones—a flower much like the ones in the crown I was to give to the Queen of Love and Beauty."

Lyanna felt herself flush, but then a warmth spread across her chest. Even then, had she won the opportunity to come to this place, to be trained by such famous knights? It made the moment much more of a victory and less of an embarrassment to all involved.

"But many people misunderstood the gesture. I'm sorry if it caused you any trouble."

Rhaegar gave a laugh that was more of a scoff than a sound of humour. "Well, if they did think ill of me then I confirmed it when I took you."

Lyanna went to speak but Rhaegar stopped her by lifting his finger to her lips.

"Only your family and your crannogman friend know you were the mystery knight. I have heard Ser Oswell's opinions, and it grieves me to know that they are not entirely baseless. No doubt his opinion is the same as many others'." Rhaegar removed his finger from her lips and cupped her jaw with his hand.

"I don't know if it was the prophecy or my thinking of you that came first, all I know is that I am more consumed by thoughts of you than any other prophecy I have come to believe in down the years. It feels as if you are _the_ prophecy, the destiny I have been heading for all this time."

Lyanna felt her heart skip a beat, but then tried to understand exactly what it was the prince was telling her. "So, you are obsessed with me because you think I'm the ice knight on the direwolf?" Her voice was dubious and unsure.

Rhaegar shook his head. "No. Not just because of that. That was the spark that fired my imagination, and I do think that you will be a great knight once your training is over, but there were other motivations." The prince choked over his next sentence. "I didn't ask to become infatuated with you. Maybe there is as much truth in what people think as in the reasoning I use to convince myself that I did this to fulfil a prophecy. I brought you here for me. To rescue you from a life you didn't want, and in hope that you might be with me instead."

Lyanna felt drunk, as if the only thing holding her up was the hand at the side of her face. Her legs threatened to give out underneath her at any time.

She had been in love with the prince since Harrenhal. He knew who she was and accepted her for it, and now it seemed that it was more than just acceptance he felt towards her. Dizzy and disorientated, the only way she could will herself to move was forward, and she did so with vigour, planting her mouth on Rhaegar's with force.

At first he held himself stiff, but he soon kissed her back with almost as much enthusiasm. At first they stood there, feeling the wind swirling around them, as arms wound around each other's torsos, and hips and mouths tried to fuse together.

Unsure of what she was doing or how to control it, Lyanna pressed her body against his, and it seemed that she was doing the right thing as she found herself lying on the cold stone that paved the top of the tower.

Scrambling, Lyanna tugged at Rhaegar's shirt, and soon after she'd finally succeeded in removing it, she found her own chest exposed to the night air. When a hand found her breast, Lyanna found it impossible to breathe, but then resumed the frantic process of removing her clothes by awkwardly reaching down to remove her boots.

Rhaegar sat up and she was about to protest until he unfastened the laces and tugged her breeches down over her thighs. As fingers found the apex at the top of her legs, Lyanna thought she was about to melt, but then leant up a little wondering if he was checking to see if she was a virgin. Long ago, Lyanna had realised that the innocent act of horse riding had robbed her of her maidenhead without the intervention of a man.

She almost opened her mouth to explain when a brief look at Rhaegar's face told her that was the last thing on his mind. His usually violet eyes were black, and his expression mirrored the intense and unfamiliar need that now burned through her. One thing was sure, every shred of the handsome prince in all of his finery was gone, and to Lyanna's delight it was only the man under the oak tree at Harrenhal that remained.

Tangling her fingers in the laces at his crotch, he assisted her in removing his final item of clothing, and as Lyanna laid flat and wrapped her legs around him, Rhaegar pushed forward with his hips and Lyanna's entire body clamped around him.

As she relaxed, Rhaegar withdrew, and with one hand tangled in Lyanna's hair and another on her hip, he found a rhythm. Looking up at an intense Rhaegar, naked and framed by stars in the night sky, his skin white in the moonlight, Lyanna decided that it was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen, until he finally collapsed with a whimper.

Afterwards, he led her down into the room below, pushing books off the bed to allow them to climb under the blankets. Kissing and exploring each other, Lyanna felt a burst of euphoria that she could only compare to the moment she spurred her horse into a gallop across the tourney field, to the moment lance clashed against shield.

Soon after, Rhaegar had her again, this time encouraging her to sit astride him as if she was a horse. And then after they'd drifted away into sleep, she was woken as he took her once more, Rhaegar pressing his body close behind her as they both lay on their sides.

Tired, sore, but with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, Lyanna finally lost consciousness and drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

~X~

Rhaegar did not sleep so well. Racked with guilt as to whether he'd done the right thing, he found himself climbing out of the warm bed that tried it's hardest to plead that this was entirely right and up the ladders once more. Retrieving his breeches and shirt, he looked into the darkness, battling the demons that waged war in his mind.

It was a relief to have finally unloaded how he felt to Lyanna, but now images of his wife and family tortured him, as well as the mocking voice of Ser Oswell, reminding him of how low Rhaegar's intentions were despite his attempts to wrap them in chivalry.

Now he'd taken her, he'd proven right all the gossips that had no doubt lapped up the story of the prince and the kidnapped beauty of the north. But what he'd just done, hadn't that been the intention all along? To fill Lyanna Stark with his seed so she might bear him the third dragon.

On some level, yes. As well as on another level he truly did mean to train her to be a great knight, just as she wanted. But wasn't that because in giving Lyanna her dream, he'd hoped that she might grow to want him?

If that had been the plan, then it had worked perfectly.

Rhaegar hunched into himself as his mind caused him real physical pain, ideas whirring round in round in circles but still coming to a final judgment and finding him guilty on all counts.

The torchlight in the distance grow ever closer, and by focusing on this, Rhaegar found at least a small way of grounding himself to the world outside of his mental torture chamber. As he realised that the traveller was heading directly for the Tower of Joy once he'd found a straight path, Rhaegar panicked, until he recognised the plain white cloak of the kings guard.

It could only be Arthur, but why had he returned from his visit to Starfall, his family home, so soon?

Grabbing his Targaryen jerkin and his boots, Rhaegar paused to view Lyanna, tangled in his bed sheets, before descending the winding stairs. By the time he was fully dressed and had made his way to the gate, Rhaegar met his friend, weary and drawn.

"My prince...news." Arthur said seriously. "Grave news."


	36. Chapter 36

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Thirty Six – Calming the Waters

Lyanna stretched languidly, eventually opening her eyes to find the room was already bright with sunlight. She gave a satisfied smile. It was going to be another beautiful day, perhaps even the most beautiful day yet.

_But where was Rhaegar?_ she thought as she looked at the empty bed next to her. Clutching the blankets to her chest, Lyanna sat up and looked around, relaxing as she saw him sat on a chair only a few feet away.

Her relief didn't last long as she took in the serious look he was giving her, and the tenseness in his posture. She gave an apprehensive grin but he didn't return the gesture.

Deflated, Lyanna hugged the blankets closer. "You regret it."

The prince shook his head. "No. Yes...a little. Not as much as I should. But you might."

Lyanna scowled. "I don't regret a thing. I love you. I've been in love with you since Harrenhal."

The prince twisted his palms together. "I love you, too—intensely so—but things have changed. There are things you should know."

"What things? That you're married? That you're the prince? I don't care. I don't want to be a princess. You know that."

The prince gave a sigh and looked distressed. With a nervous swallow, he began to speak slowly and sombrely.

"After you left the Riverlands with me, your brother rode to King's Landing. He followed my men and the obvious trail they left at my command to prevent them from pursuing us. I thought that someone would stop him before he got to the Red Keep, or at least that he would petition the king, not to react in the way he did."

Lyanna felt her stomach twist. "What did Brandon do?"

"He challenged me to a fight to the death, and I wasn't there to answer it. My father slaughtered his men, and put the survivors in the dungeons to await trail."

"Brandon's in jail?"

Rhaegar shook his head. "My father demanded that all the Northern Lords attended their son's trials, and then he executed both."

Trying to breathe past the lump forming in her throat, Lyanna tried to comprehend that Brandon was dead...and her father...

"How did they die? Was it a clean death?" When Rhaegar didn't answer, Lyanna shouted the question again.

Rhaegar struggled to speak. "My father burned Lord Stark in his armour. Your brother strangled himself trying to rescue him. I'm so sorry. I never envisioned this. If I had..."

Wrapping the blanket around herself, Lyanna climbed out of the bed, yanking the door open and hurrying down the steps to her room. She ignored the prince shouting her name, and slammed her own door behind her.

Dropping the blanket to the floor, she scrambled around the room for clean breeches, a shirt, and then remembered her boots were in Rhaegar's room. No matter. She fastened her armour as best as she could on her own, with her sword belt around her waist. The dull, ancient mirror in the corner showed her the ugly expression on her face and the dishevelment of her hair.

Lyanna slumped to the floor.

This was her fault. If she hadn't been so headstrong, putting her own needs ahead of her duty, Brandon and her father would be alive. She hadn't even said goodbye to either of them, just took off in her own way.

And Eddard, he was Lord Stark now. He had always known how to be honourable and dutiful—did he hate her for her actions? Benjen, did he hate her, too?

Using the bed to help her climb to her feet, Lyanna hastily tugged a comb through the tangles on her head, before grabbing her helm and striding purposefully out of the tower.

Oswell and Arthur were waiting downstairs, but Lyanna didn't pause to look at them as she padded towards the stables.

Oswell was the first to catch up. "Lyanna, where are you going? You have nothing on your feet."

"I will buy some boots in the first village I come across." She pointed at one of the gems in her elaborate armour. "I daresay I'll get a fine pair in return for one of these."

"You can't ride all the way to King's Landing."

Lyanna stopped for just a second. "Who said I was heading to King's Landing? I'm going to Winterfell. My brothers need me."

"The new Lord Stark isn't in Winterfell." Rhaegar came out of the stables, leading Lyanna's horse, already saddled up. "He's in the Vale with Lord Arryn and Lord Robert.

"I'm not going to stop you if you want to go, in fact I'll send Oswell with you to see you arrive safely, but I would ask you to stay. Yes, your brothers would be comforted by seeing you. At least Brandon Stark will have succeeded in returning you to your family with his actions, but you'd still be returning in disgrace—"

"I don't care what people think of me!" Lyanna snarled. "I should be with Eddard and Benjen."

"Your brothers might care about what people think of you. His bannermen might. My family has wronged yours, and the best thing you can do for your brothers is to calm the situation before this escalates into a civil war."

Lyanna stared at Rhaegar. "And how do I that?"

"It won't bring your father and your brother back, but it might placate both sides. We marry and join our houses."

Lyanna snorted. "You're already married."

"Yes, I am, but Targaryens have taken more than one wife in the past. I will convince the king to recognise the union, and then at least we can avoid any further bloodshed. My father has called for your brother's head, Lord Arryn's, and Lord Robert's. I will persuade him to let them be."

Lyanna shook her head. "No."

The prince struggled to hide his disappointment. "No?"

"If I'm going to be expected to wait here, then you'll wait here too. Send one of these two to King's Landing."

"But it would be better if I—"

"No," Lyanna yelled. "If I'm to do nothing then you will too. And while Oswell or Arthur are gone you will train me even harder than before, so at least if I don't return to them a princess, I can at least be the great knight I wanted to be in the first place. I didn't come here to exchange one betrothed for another."

Lyanna seethed with anger, and it wasn't hard to see why the direwolf was her house sigil in that moment.

"I know." Rhaegar held out the reins and looked between the two kings guard. It was Oswell stepped forward, putting his foot into the stirrup and giving a quick nod to the prince. Before he rode away he gave Lyanna a lingering look.

As he galloped through the gates, kicking up a cloud of dust, the three remaining stood awkwardly, none of them speaking. After a while, Lyanna looked at Rhaegar, possibly her future husband, and felt twisted with confusion.

Part of her blamed him for the king's actions, but not as much as she blamed herself. Would marrying him really solve anything? Certainly Robert Baratheon would not be appeased by it.

The idea of coming out of hiding as a princess mortified Lyanna even more than being a fallen woman, seemingly soiled in most people's eyes. Princess Elia was how a princess should be. Lyanna wasn't the regal type, and if it wasn't for the fact that it was Rhaegar that she was marrying the idea would have been wholly abhorrent.

Rhaegar was looking back at her. What was he thinking? He said he loved her, but was he as unsure about marriage as she was? Part of her wanted to go to him, to feel his arms around her again, his lips on hers, but between them were the ghosts of her father and her brother.

Eventually she walked to the courtyard, her visor covering the tears that she finally allowed to fall from her eyes. The others joined her, and for the rest of the day she vented her emotions with mock battle.

Exhausted, when it was time for bed, Lyanna hesitated but found herself knocking at Rhaegar's door. Finally letting it out, she wailed and allowed wet, snotty sobs to escape as she fell asleep in her prince's arms.


	37. Chapter 37

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Please forgive any canon errors. I've loaned my brother Game of Thrones and I'm piecing the history together by A Wiki of Ice and Fire and Westeros dot org only.**

~X~

Chapter Thirty Seven – Homecomings

Storm's End

Robert paused for only a second as he saw the huge fist of Storm's End's main tower rising over the horizon, but this was no time to be sentimental. He might be Lord of the Stormlands, this might be the place of his childhood, but he was also a fugitive from the king. The men—his men—inside that castle hadn't seen him for a year or two. Where did their loyalties lie?

When he'd left he'd been a boy, angry and full of untamed hormones, sent away to the Vale to learn how to be the Lord he'd become at such a young age. Now he was returning home to demand these people fight and die for him.

And to secure Lyanna's safe return, his heart reminded him. Not that he was likely to forget.

Thinking of Lyanna always left Robb in a fit of rage, fantasizing about tearing Rhaegar apart with his own hands. This dream kept the fires of war burning in Robert's chest, motivating him and making him keen to kill Targaryens on the battlefield, but right now he held back the spiral of emotions. He would need to have his wits about him as he entered his own castle.

Since Jon had convinced both him and Ned to rebel against the throne, Robb felt like he'd aged ten years. It wasn't until he was on board the ship that brought him south, avoiding the roads that would have taken him too close to King's Landing via land, that he'd noticed he also looked older. Instead of the soft wisps that had grown previously, he had the thick, coarse carpet of a real man's beard beginning on his jaw. Robb had been so preoccupied that he'd forgotten about mundane matters like shaving.

Rather than removing his new beard, he'd decided he liked the change and kept it. He was glad of it now as a strong wind straight off the sea buffeted him. And maybe his facial hair would make the men he was about to face think that he had grown to be one of them—he certainly had the dark hair his family was famed for.

The yellow and black banners of Houses Baratheon rippled in the wind beside him, signalling to those on the cliff mounted stronghold who it was marching their way with a considerable company of infantrymen.

Just in case they couldn't recall his face, Robert made sure he'd wore his antlered helm this morning, but beneath his armour and the show of strength, the boy inside worried about what was in store. Would he be arrested on sight? Had he earned the loyalty of those he had been made lord of on his father's death, even at a distance?

Though he longed to race ahead and find out sooner rather than later, Robert remained with the soldiers who had made the journey by his side. Jon Arryn was raising his own banners, gathering together a force from the Vale and fighting the Targaryen loyalists that had come along the East Road, forcing Ned and Robb to head in opposite directions on less travelled routes.

Robb felt a little naked and green without his older, more experienced mentor and his cavalry, but this was the time to step up and become an adult. This was his chance to show who he was and what he was capable of; he'd played at war for so long and now it was for real. The usual flush of excitement he felt about practising in the Eyrie or fighting in the melee curdled with the churning nervousness in his bowels.

Ned was heading further North to Winterfell, though he had the advantage that his men would already be incensed and ready to start a war over their executed sons, brothers, and fathers. Here, Robert was asking people to fight just to keep his own head on his shoulders. It was a lot to ask, to rebel against the crown for one person, their absentee lord who had been a young boy when he had left for his education in the Eyrie.

Marching through the gate, he sat tall and made a point of looking as many burly men and knights in the eye as he could. When he reached the main yard, Robb resisted the urge to take in the familiar stones and faces and brought his horse to a halt. When he spoke, he made sure he was loud and clear.

"It's been a long time since I returned home, and I do now as a rebel against House Targaryen. Somehow, even out of sight in the Vale, I have caused the king offence and he calls for my head—though it is his son, Rhaegar, that has taken Lyanna Stark, the woman I love and your future lady." Robert dismounted and collected his war hammer.

"If any man feels tempted by the rewards King Aerys has promised in return for this." Robert tapped the side of his helm with the palm of his hand. "Then by all means come and try to remove it from my shoulders. But bear in mind the king's idea of fairness. Brandon Stark rode to King's Landing with a genuine grievance, and no doubt you've already heard of his fate—and that of his father and the other northerners. That is not justice, and I mean to fight against it."

Robert paused. "Anyone wanting to come and face me, do so now." He looked around at the sea of faces gathered around him, not one looking as if they were considering the idea. He saw quiet interest, stern, nodding agreement, and others who looked as if they were ready to march on the Red Keep that very moment.

"Good. I will raise the Stormlands, and together with the Vale and the North we'll show the Targaryens that we won't lie down and let them ride over us. The time of dragons is over."

There were cheers and murmurs of approval. Relieved, Robert climbed the steps and walked through the heavy, familiar door. It was here that he finally saw Maester Cressen and his two younger brothers, Stannis and Renly.

Stannis was exactly as he remembered him, his hair neatly combed and a serious expression on his pinched face, only he was now taller and much more awkward-looking within his own skin. Renly, still a young child, hid behind Maester Cressen's robes, fat baby-like cheeks and unsure eyes peeking out behind the brown cloth.

"My lord, haven't you grown since I saw you last. How was your journey?" The old maester gave a friendly smile but Robert only had his head set on serious business and wine, not pleasantries.

"Long, tiring, and with the constant threat of someone wanting to take my head hanging over me. Not to mention dry." Robert continued to walk towards the main hall. "Tell the steward to organise a feast tonight and tomorrow. We're going to need plenty of meat and ale to talk my guests into giving up their lives for me. Send ravens—I'm calling the banners. We're going to war."

Stannis watched in awe as his older brother stormed away. Robert looked just as strong, fierce, and uncompromising as had been made out in the tales from Harrenhal. He'd rode up to the castle looking every bit the great lord, splendid in his antlered armour, looking very much like the black stag on the Baratheon banner made flesh.

Part of him had wanted to cry out his name and run in for a bear hug, but Stannis wasn't the one for such displays. He had missed Robert and was glad for his return, but there was something different about his older brother, something imposing.

Could it be the determined flash in his eyes, or maybe it was just the wiry beard? Stannis wondered if he might be able to grow one himself.

~X~

Winterfell

Even though it was the final hours before dawn, it was the thought that he might miss the first sight of his childhood home that kept Ned awake, though his body burned with fatigue. He'd been travelling for almost a month, staying off the King's Road and away from any major castles or forts, lest he be recognised by anyone less than friendly.

He and the few soldiers making the journey with him had paid a fisherman to take them across the Bite to White Harbour, but during the crossing storms hit. The fisherman had been killed, but thanks to the keen seamanship of his daughter they'd at least made it to Sweetsister, one of the Sister Isles.

Feeling as if he'd aged ten years in a night, Ned had never been so glad to see dry land. Coughing out saltwater, he'd collapsed on the pebbled shore and given thanks to the gods for seeing him through that black night.

They'd spent a week hidden on the island, under the care of Lord Godric Borrell, and whilst there he'd become overcome with awe for his saviour, the young fisherman's daughter.

It hadn't been the same as it was with Ashara—that feeling of being struck by lightning, paralysed. Instead it had been a warm glow of admiration over her bravery and determination, which grew into an appreciation of her pretty features and plain way of speaking. Selye was her name.

One night, in the simple hut where she was hiding Ned and his surviving men, they'd both found themselves unable to sleep. While the others snored, they had stayed up for most of the night talking about the mutual losses of their fathers. At one point, Selye had dropped an item on the floor, and in reaching for it, they'd found their faces within inches of one another's.

The moment seemed to take an eternity to pass, and two voices had waged war within Ned. As he noticed her gaze drop to his mouth in a way that screamed invitation, it would have been so easy to press his mouth to hers. But she was vulnerable, he'd told himself. She had just lost her only parent, and to take advantage of her would be wholly wrong.

And so the moment had passed, but they had continued to talk until they fell asleep, only this time with a definite charge to the atmosphere. He'd woken up with her curled up against his body, with her head on his chest.

The over familiarity of his waking position and the almost kiss had stayed with him for the rest of the day, and made it difficult to be in her presence.

Without Selye, Eddard would be in a watery grave. The title, Lord of Winterfell, would have passed to Benjen, and it would be up to him to answer Jon's request to raise the North. Ned didn't doubt that Ben would do it, but valuable time would be lost, and as much as he would like to be a knight, Ben was still young and inexperienced.

It was that train of thought that had convinced Ned that Selye was the pin that held together the entire hopes of the rebellion. His admiration became exacerbated by the fact that in her presence, he now found himself distracted by her manner of breathing, and her slightest movement seemed to wind him tighter and tighter.

Almost driven to madness by the rescuer he felt he owed so much to, when it was time to leave on the ship Lord Borrell had found to smuggle him into White Harbour, he was on the verge of asking Selye to marry him and become his wife. Luckily, he'd had enough of his senses remaining to remind him of his place and duty.

He was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Good lords didn't marry attractive young common women on a whim, no matter how indebted they felt to them. He could have loved her, Ned's conscience had whispered. She would be a fine wife despite her simple roots, but then another argument had dismissed the matter entirely.

Lords made political alliances, and to wed someone beneath their station, especially in desperate times, was a waste. Besides, now he was Lord of Winterfell, maybe he could initiate an alliance with Dorne, more specifically Starfall...

Would whatever it was that had caused Ashara so much trouble in Harrenhal's godswood be swept away now that he was a great lord? Once more struck with lightning, Ned dared to hope, at least until he reasoned that he was a rebel against the crown, and no one wanting to remain on the side of the king would give him a second look. Especially not Ashara Dayne, handmaiden to King Aerys' daughter-in-law.

And so it was that he satisfied himself with kissing Selye's hand, leaving her on Sweetsister with the promise that he would send her financial reward for her actions, though the gesture seemed empty. What price could possibly be paid to compensate the loss of a father?

Still, he'd stayed on board as he sailed away from Sweetsister and Selye, until the night had concealed her figure as she stood on the seashore, and the torch that marked her position disappeared into the blackness.

In White Harbour he'd found horses and supplies to replace that what was lost, and his journey across the wild ways of the North had begun.

There was a chill in the air on those early spring mornings, as he woke in his outdoor bedroom to find that night had been gnawing on his bones, leaving him feeling frozen to the core. Now, tired, cold, and mentally lethargic, he went over and over thoughts of comfortable Winterfell to keep himself moving forward each day. Every night, thoughts of Ashara or Selye spontaneously came to mind, keeping his mind and other parts of his body warm.

Whatever had changed in Ned, he found himself understanding Robb more, though Ned would never dishonour a woman by lying with her out of wedlock as his friend had often done.

Eddard thought often about where Robert was, and whether his journey had found smoother seas. How was Jon Arryn faring in the Vale? Would Ned himself be able to lead the armies of the North south to avenge his father and brother's death, and see justice done for the families of the knights and soldiers who had died alongside their Stark lord and his heir?

Many men and boys who had not expected to become heads of their household had lost family that day. It would be these men that he'd have to listen to as he sat in his dead father's seat, in halls that had once echoed to the sound of Brandon's powerful voice. In comparison, would the quiet second son seem weak?

What was the difference between a good lord and a bad one? Morals? Honesty? Strength of character and a talent for public speaking? Ability on the battlefield? Ned measured himself against his father and older brother, finding himself lacking.

It felt as if he'd been travelling forever when the first light from Winterfell came into view. It was just as good as setting foot on the dry land of Sweetsister all over again. Revitalised, he and his men broke into a canter.

As they rode up to the gates, even so close to home Ned's return did not get any easier. It wasn't until he'd removed his hood and made sure the soldiers on the battlements could clearly see that he was Eddard Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, that the order to open the gates was given. Despite the delay, it pleased him to see that Benjen had made sure their home was well defended.

Once finally inside, Ned dismounted, still finding his way barred by people who wanted to speak to him.

"I'm sorry for what they did to your brother and your father, m'lord."

"Always said you'd make a good Lord Stark."

"My uncle went to King's Landing with Ser Brandon. Left two children and a sickly wife..."

Ned replied appropriately, still pushing through the human obstacles that hampered his progress. After placating Maester Walys with a promise that he'd deal with the issues that had built up in the absence of a Lord Stark after sleep and a good meal, Ned finally reached his destination.

Treading carefully across the rushes and noticing the orange glow of dawn through the window, Ned sat on the edge of Benjen's bed. His youngest brother stirred a little, opening his eyes just a little and murmuring, "Ned?"

After a few moment of recognition, Ben sat bolt upright. "Ned!"

Ned reached forward and ruffled Ben's hair. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"I didn't think you were coming back. After Father and Brandon, and then the king calling for your head, I thought I'd never see any of you again." Ben's voice was choked and his eyes watery.

"Of course I'd come back." Ned searched for the words to convey how much he needed to see the only traceable family he had left, but they didn't materialise. He also wanted to reassure Ben that he intended on never leaving Winterfell again, but that would be a lie.

Something in Ned's expression seemed to convey his message, and Ben visibly shrank.

"You're going again, aren't you? Once you've raised an army."

Ned nodded.

"And you're going to fight against the king's allies. Mace Tyrell. Randyll Tarly. The kingsguard. Prince Rhaegar..."

"Maybe. The north is the largest of the seven kingdoms of Westeros. The Stormlands are strong, and with the Vale, we're not a force to be taken lightly. It could be that the king sees that and wants to negotiate a peace."

Ben knew how to read Ned too well and saw how little he believed in a peaceful solution. He gave a grimace.

"If Rhaegar comes out to fight, then Lyanna might come home."

Ned smiled sadly. "Aye. That could happen."

A silence fell, neither wanting to say anything that might shatter the fictional future they were discussing. It was Ben that finally broke it.

"I don't want to be Lord of Winterfell. I don't want to be alone. Promise me you'll come back."

Ned shifted awkwardly. In his heart he didn't believe he'd be Lord Stark for long. If he was lucky, he might find himself languishing in the black cells at the king's pleasure, but he replied as best as he could.

"I promise that I'll do everything I can to make sure that I come home, and that I'll try my hardest to bring Lyanna home, too." Every single word was heavy, weighted with honesty and the realisation that the simple promise seemed almost impossible to achieve.

"You sound like father." Ben gave a look with hollow, red eyes, but climbed out of his bed, digging underneath it for a package wrapped in cloth. He handled it almost reverently. "When he went, he left this behind for me to give to Lord Stark when he returned. You're Lord Stark now."

Ned waited patiently for the wrappings to be removed, revealing Ice, his father's Valyrian steel greatsword, which had been passed down through the family for countless generations.

The blade was dark grey, and as wide across as Ned's hand. It was longer than Benjen was tall, and as Ned picked it up he was reminded of its weight. Once upon a time he'd tried to lift it, and his mind automatically went back to that day, back when Benjen was still a babe in his nursemaid's arms, Lyanna was no higher than father's knees, and Brandon had yet to leave for his fostering at Barrowton.

Had Brandon been as tall as Ice already at that age, or was that just his memory playing tricks with him? Certainly, Ned wasn't much taller than the greatsword himself even now as an adult. Ice was a formidable weapon, weighty and difficult to wield, but unexpectedly it was now his.

"You'll need to practice with it before you go to war," Ben said matter-of-factly.

"I will." Ned inspected the distinctive ripples in the blade, before laying it back down on Benjen's bed.

Ben found something else within the wrappings, and handed over a note written in their father's handwriting.

"Ice is a famous weapon. It's been in our family for longer than history remembers. Father left it behind because he knew he wasn't coming back. He wanted you to have it."

Ned fingered the small square of parchment, caressing the ink left there by the parent he'd never see again, unless it was the stone effigy that would need to be commissioned for the tomb under Winterfell. He recalled the dark, shadowy place where the bones of the old kings of the north and previous Lord Stark's lay at rest. Where his bones might one day lie with them. Brandon's, too, though he would only have been Lord Stark if he'd lived a few moments longer than their father.

"If you take Ice with you when you go into battle, then you've got to come back. Otherwise someone who's not a Stark might take it for their own."

"I won't let them."

Ned's voice was determined. For the first time, after holding the deadly heirloom, Ned truly felt like he was the Warden of the North, Lord Stark of Winterfell. He was descended from the northern kings of old, the first men, who had previously wielded Ice. Their strength flowed through his veins, and he felt every bit as single minded and fierce as the direwolf sigil of his house.

He wouldn't be remembered as Eddard the Weak, or Eddard the Coward. He would call the banners, and give his people a chance to avenge their murdered uncles, fathers, sons and brothers. His story would be that of a young lord, marching south in rebellion with his friends, defying the king who had so cruelly executed his father and brother, and he wouldn't rest until justice was served and the honour of his family restored.


	38. Chapter 38

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**For those who have submitted unsigned reviews, thank you for the concrit and feedback. Always gratefully received.**

~X~

Chapter Thirty Eight – Living with the Dragon

The Tower of Joy

Lyanna rolled over towards Rhaegar's side of the bed, her eyes flickering open once she found it empty. Scanning the room, she discovered that the hatch was closed and that Rhaegar's familiar black jerkin was missing.

Not that this was anything new. Her love didn't sleep for very long, often waking before the sun showed its face. Just once it would be nice to wake up beside him. It might change the pattern and tone of her morning.

Reaching for her shirt and breeches abandoned the night before, Lyanna washed away the evidence that she hadn't been alone all night, and then dressed. A quick look out of the window confirmed that it was still very early.

Skipping down the stairs, she heard movement in Arthur's room as she headed to the lowest and largest bedroom, which now only served as her dressing room. She ran a brush through her hair and then braided it over her shoulder.

Lyanna walked over to her splendid and now complete suit of plate armour. It was her second most treasured possession after her sword and it had been costly indeed, the price paid by more than just herself. As she ran her fingers over the blue sapphire flowers, Lyanna remembered sitting by the tourney field at Harrenhal with her family, the look of shock on her father and Brandon's faces as the prince handed her a crown of blue roses.

And now they were dead. Her father's stern face, with its grey eyes that could be frosty one moment and soft as slush the next, sprung to mind. She missed him so much—Brandon, too. Lyanna's face creased in a half-smile as she recalled fond memories, the expression quickly collapsing with the knowledge that it was her pig-headed resolve to wear armour and a sword that had determined their fates.

Solemnly, she began the awkward process of fastening her plate. It would be easier if she called one of the servants to help her, but this was now her daily ritual of remembrance. It was something she liked to do on her own, in private.

Had it been more traditional, like the armour worn through most of Westeros, she would have been unable. Instead she had been given plate like that worn here in Dorne, where full plate would become cumbersome in the oppressive temperatures of the day—another reminder that she was far from her native Winterfell with its snows and freezing rain. She had left the North far behind when she had come south to be trained by the prince.

This room gave Lyanna a chance to be alone away from the heat of the courtyard or the easy distraction of Rhaegar's bed. She had always thought of herself as good company, but since the news that Arthur Dayne had brought she seemed to have developed some of her love's tortured introspection. It seemed that Lyanna wasn't such good company for herself after all. She felt homesick for Winterfell and the sea of familiar faces that had surrounded her. The faces of people she'd betrayed.

Had Oswell reached King's Landing yet? Not only did she miss his dark humours and cynicism, but Lyanna was anxious to find out whether she'd be married to her prince.

Would a marriage between Targaryen and Stark bring peace? In Lyanna's eyes a marriage wouldn't bring back her father or her brother, and she was sure that many northern lords would be of a similar mindset. Eddard, however, would see sense—this she knew for a fact.

But would the king? During their late night discussions, over their evening meals and in the bedroom, Rhaegar had told her of his concerns over his father's grip on sanity.

Lyanna hated the king, though it felt like treason to feel that way towards the man that had sired Rhaegar. If she did become Rhaegar's wife, then it was probably for the best that she avoided King's Landing if possible. And then there was the matter of his first wife, Princess Elia—another innocent party who'd paid a dear price for Lyanna's fine armour, and his children, Aegon and Rhaenys. She'd stolen him away from them these last few months.

Once she looked the part of the warrior woman she'd always wanted to be, the ice knight that Rhaegar had convinced her she was destined to become left the Tower. Her dressing process always left her feeling empty, apart from a ball of anger that had built up in her stomach towards her prospective father-in-law.

After breakfast, waiting for her in the courtyard as always, it wasn't Prince Rhaegar but a dark knight, clad all in black, his chest glittering with blood red rubies. He was a Targaryen, and that was all that mattered. The house of dragons had murdered her father and brother, and Lyanna felt incensed. Her wolf blood boiled in her veins and she gripped her Valyrian sword tightly, it now feeling like a natural extension of her arms.

With her steel grey eyes peering through her helm, Lyanna was enthusiastic with her swings. The capable silver knight fought her dark opponent, hearing Arthur's voice shouting out small corrections to her technique.

And then, after a long dance in the increasing heat as morning creeped towards the middle of the day, Lyanna finally found the window she'd been looking for. The Targaryen had left himself open to her offensive, and her fine Valyrian steel blade flew towards his unprotected armpit, at such an angle as was sure to bury itself deep in his body.

But the tip did not penetrate, and Lyanna held back the urge to thrust forward.

There would be no revenge in killing this Targaryen, as he had already pierced her through her heart and defeated her long ago. Inside the Targaryen armour was Rhaegar, and he was as dear to her, if not more so, than Brandon and her father. He was her love.

Lyanna stepped away, pausing to catch her breath for a moment before storming as far away as the small courtyard would allow. Sitting on the low stone flower beds, she removed her helm and tried to enjoy the victory to which she'd been striving for so long.

What exactly am I fighting for? Lyanna wondered. What will all this achieve? Lyanna was undoubtedly now a trained killer, yet in achieving her dream she'd created a nightmare. She wanted to avenge the murders of her family, but to do so would harm her relationship with Rhaegar.

After all, wasn't it Lyanna herself to blame for encouraging Ben to compete at Harrenhal? That had brought her to Rhaegar's attention and allowed her the chance to run away to learn to be a knight. And if she had said no and carried on to Riverrun then there would be no murders to avenge. It was the selfish act of running away with the prince that had set the whole series of events in motion, and she was yet to be convinced that becoming his wife would solve much at all.

It might save Eddard and Benjen, and avoid a civil war, but could Lyanna ever go back to Winterfell and look everyone in the eye without seeing the faces of the men who'd died because of her actions? If she couldn't go north or to King's Landing, where else _could_ she go?

Lyanna's self-flagellation ceased as footsteps approached. Rhaegar had removed his helm, and as he drew near he held back, his handsome face a picture of concern.

"You fought well. Congratulations. That was an excellent display." Her love's expression held an apology, as if he knew the path her mind had been taking. He held out a skin of water and Lyanna gratefully took it.

"Thank you."

As she drank, Rhaegar also sat on the edge of the flower bed, waiting to take the skin from her once she'd finished. His violet eyes bore into Lyanna's, willing her to talk.

It was no good. She couldn't be mad at him. He was no more to blame than herself. Lyanna's mouth twitched and her icy demeanour thawed. In response, her sad prince smiled in return, and then leaned over to steal a kiss.

~X~

King's Landing

Aerys grew increasingly agitated with the small council as they continued to ask him questions about which he had no interest. Tywin had never bored him like this—he had taken care of the mundane matters and only sought his opinions on the things that really mattered, as a Hand should do, whereas Merryweather seemed incapable of making any decisions.

He became even more distracted when the laughing tree finally located him, bursting through the stone wall roots first. It taunted him quietly, reminding him that he was doomed and that the Iron Throne would be taken from him within the year—that he would meet his end in his own throne room at the hands of someone close to him.

He tried his best to ignore what it was saying, attempting to concentrate on the nonsense Merryweather was mumbling in his ear. To compensate, the tree began speaking louder, laughing hysterically between jibes.

"I will show you!" the king suddenly cried out when the conflicting voices got too much for him.

After the burning of Lord Stark and the death of his foolish son, the king had been approached by one of the pyromancers, and it had been a happy introduction. Rossart, he was called, and they had talked long, both sharing an enthusiasm for fire.

He had shown him "wildfire"—the volatile green substance that was like liquid dragon fire. He often visited and King Aerys had commissioned him to start producing wildfire for him. One day he would burn the blasted tree and put an end to its prophesising.

"Your Grace?" Lord Merryweather asked tremulously, and the king blinked. In that instant the tree disappeared and the room was quiet.

Aerys smiled. The tree knew its fate. Fire devours wood, just as the Targaryen dragons would burn and destroy the North and its godswoods, with their pathetic white trees.

The council members looked at each other, and then used the moment as a prompt to move the matter onto more interesting subjects.

"Varys." The king addressed the young, bald-headed eunuch they called the Spider. Even at his fresh age and with his foreign ways, he had proven to be a very capable Master of Secrets. He was intelligent and knew when to speak and not to babble like some idiots.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"What news is there of the rebels. Has there been a sighting of Lord Stark as yet?" _I will burn him and his white trees._ "And what of Lord Arryn and Lord Baratheon?"

"No news of the new Lord Stark, but my little birds have been following the daughter of the fisherman it is said smuggled Eddard Stark from the Vale. It seems that her father perished during a storm around the same time—"

Lord Merryweather interrupted, earning King Aerys' scorn. "Then do we think the rebellious Lord Stark perished at sea?"

"I would think not. The daughter was on the vessel when it departed, and yet she seems to have escaped unharmed. Though she is still mourning her father, she has been in receipt of some very good fortune. She has a new boat—a handsome one, it is said—and has employed a number of men from the village. She captains the vessel herself and is very adept at doing so. It seems very strange that a girl who has lost her father and his ship could manage to do all this without earning the gratitude of some Lord..."

King Aerys nodded his head. What Varys was implying seemed to fit the facts.

"Lord Arryn is still fighting in the Vale, and our forces are doing a rather successful job of keeping him from heading south to join Lord Baratheon." Lord Merryweather paused to take a sip of wine from his ornate golden goblet. "Lord Baratheon is still at Storm's End, trying to convince his bannermen to join his cause."

"And what are we doing to ensure that this does not happen?" King Aerys glared at Lord Merryweather, who visibly shrank and suddenly seemed less comfortable under his gaze.

"I can assure Your Grace that the matter has been dealt with. I have assurances that Lords Fell, Cafferen, and Grandison remain your loyal subjects, and await instructions. I am sure that you will have no disagreement with their request that the lands of Lord Baratheon and those that choose to fight beside him might be redistributed amongst them once they quell the rebellion."

"Agreed. Inform them and bid them mobilise immediately. The longer we delay, the more chance Lord Baratheon has of becoming organised."

"Yes, Your Grace. I do apologise for not informing you sooner. I will send ravens as soon as this council meeting ends."

After that, the discussion turned to mundane matters once more, and King Aerys distracted himself with daydreams. A great black and red dragon flew over burning countryside, following a fleeing black stag. Swooping down, the dragon's claws rented the stag's flesh, before the giant lizard jaws sent out a burst of flame and then tore out its prey's jugular.

"I will show you. I will burn them—burn them all." The wolf, the stag, the eagle—they were no match for a dragon. Even the lion—King Aerys looked to young Jaime Lannister standing in the corner of the room.

Once the meeting was over, King Aerys made his way through the red keep, Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold Hightower walking behind him. Turning a corner, the king came across his second son—seven-year-old Viserys, playing with small animal figures.

Aerys took pause to watch him for a moment. He left the young boy's care to his mother, and as the very sight of his sister and wife reminded him that he'd had to forsake his love of Joanna Lannister to keep the Targaryen bloodlines pure enraged him, he had spent very little time with his youngest issue.

Maybe that had been a mistake? Dragons should be strong, and to abandon the boy to be raised by a mere woman would result in him being soft and weak of mind.

Aerys thought about the woman he was wed to but did not love, either as a wife or a sister, as the forced arrangement had bred resentment between both of them. He abhorred the thought, but she was still of an age where she might bear another child.

Only true dragons should sit the Iron Throne. Aegon, Rhaegar's son, was only half a dragon, his blood polluted by that of his sickly mother, Elia of Dorne. Maybe a line of pure bloods could still flow from Prince Viserys, though he was only third in line to the throne.

Yes. And if Aerys oversaw Viserys' education himself at this malleable age, then it would be useful to have an insurance policy, should Rhaegar have his mind addled by his Stark girl and seek to betray the Iron Throne and his family.

It would involve lying with Rhaella once more, but the life of a dragon was a life of duty. It was his duty to fill his sister's belly with a daughter for Viserys. For a moment Aerys felt uncomfortable subjecting the young boy to the same fate as himself, a loveless, incestuous marriage. But then, the life of a dragon _was_ a life of duty, and Rhaegar, the older son and heir, was in dereliction of his.

"Viserys!"

The boy looked startled. "Yes, father." He got to his feet and approached apprehensively.

"Let me show you what it takes to be a king."

The fear dissipated and a wide grin stretched across the young prince's face. King Aerys felt a flush of parental pride. "Come with me. Stay by my side, and you shall see what is required of a dragon."

Reciting stories of kings of old, father and son retired to the king's solar, reciting and listening avidly the tales of their glorious ancestors and the dragons, now long gone, that had cemented their places as the indisputed rulers of Westeros.

Hours passed and the sun set, yet Aerys contined to speak and Viserys listened. Finally, Aerys stated that the lesson had concluded for the day, and sent the boy to retire to his bed, happy at the unexpected paternal attention he had received.

However, once he was gone, Aerys' mood soured as he tried to convince himself that he should call upon Rhaella in her chambers. He truly did not want to and tried to remind himself of his duty as a dragon.

_I am a dragon. It is only right that I lie with my fellow dragon._ Aerys imagined himself as a great dragon, descending from the skies and courting his mate with claws, teeth, and flame, as a dragon should.

His meditation was broken when his attention was caught by Ser Gerold. To Aerys' relief, there was someone to see him, and he was saved the task of calling up on his wife for the time being.

The door opened and Ser Oswell entered.

The kingsguard who had disappeared months earlier after leaving King's Landing with his son bowed, and explained that Rhaegar had sent him to ask a question on his behalf. Ser Oswell seemed reluctant at first, but at the king's command confirmed that Rhaegar was in Dorne with his Stark lover.

"Your Grace, your son apologises for any difficulties he has have caused by taking Lyanna Stark as his lover. He has heard of the fate of Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark, and understands that this has caused upset in the Seven Kingdoms. However, he believes he knows a way to once more bring peace under your rule."

So, Rhaegar admitted that he had made an error in taking his Joanna, but he had thought of a way that the situation could be rectified. The idea that such a thing could be fixed sent a streak of jealousy down Aerys' spine.

No, there was no way to fix this situation other than the crushing of the resulting rebellion. If such a thing could be fixed, he would have thought of it and taken Joanna Lannister from her family long ago.

"Prince Rhaegar seeks to remind you of the Targaryen tradition of taking more than one wife that used to be practiced in the past, and begs your permission to marry to Lyanna Stark. He believes that this would appease the north and the new Lord Stark—"

"_No!_ There will be no second marriage," Aerys shouted, getting to his feet. "He has been irresponsible, leaving me, his father, to deal with the mess he has caused. Finally, once I have dealt with the matter, he crawls out of the woodwork to ask me to revive an ancient tradition, to allow him to marry his Stark whore. _It will not be._ I forbid it. I will not pollute my house with wolf blood. My son has a wife—he should do his duty and sleep in the bed that has been made for him."

_As I have done these long years_, Aerys added mentally. If I could have taken a second wife, practiced polygamous marriage, I would have had Joanna. She would have been mine and I could have been happy, but no, I did my duty and married Rhaella, though I did not want to. Rhaegar cannot have that which I could not.

Or was this the beginnings of a conspiracy? Rhaegar had already brought about the rebellion by selfishly taking Lyanna Stark. To take a second wife would be an insult to Elia's family, the Martells. Was this the prince's plan to take the Iron Throne from under him? Firstly, he had turned the North against him, yet he would placate them by marrying one of them.

He might find it more difficult to calm the Baratheon boy, but maybe he did not intend to—maybe the plan was to allow Lord Robert to rebel, and would gladly see Lyanna Stark's former betrothed dead. Next, if he was allowed to take a second wife, he would put the loyalty of Dorne in a precarious position.

Or maybe his daughter-in-law's kinsmen were aiding his eldest son, despite the fact that the Crown Prince had insulted his wife and her family with his actions. He had always been of the opinion that the marriage he had arranged for his heir had been a happy one, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

He had honoured the Martells by breaking the agreement to wed Rhaegar to Cersei Lannister, but now they were harbouring the prince. Their allegiance should be to him, not his inconstant son. Steps would need to be taken to ensure that they remained loyal. He would keep Princess Elia close—and the half-blood children she had bore.

And in case his son should turn out to be as treacherous as he currently suspected, he would go to Rhaella's room. He would father a daughter to marry Viserys, and if Dorne joined the rebellion, he would crush Elia and her offspring, and ensure that he had a more suitable heir waiting in the wings, with a line of pure-blooded Targaryens to continue his line.


	39. Chapter 39

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Now, I'm going to try my best to approximate where everyone would have been at this point in time based on the information I have, but please forgive me if I'm a little out on a few facts.**

**I did start this as a collection of drabbles, but as it's going to take a while to get through all the POVs, I thought I'd separate into parts. **

~X~

Chapter Thirty Nine – Calm Before the Storm (Part 1)

Ashara

As the boat moored at the jetty of the small riverside town, a break on the journey from High Hermitage back to Starfall, Ashara reluctantly got ready to go ashore. For a brief second she considered using the gold in her purse to buy a horse to head straight back to her son, but she knew that she had outstayed her welcome.

Ashara had tried to hold back, tried to remind herself that she wasn't "Gerold's" mother, but it wasn't something that was easy to forget. Maybe she had accidentally called him Brandon one too many times, or maybe her habit of being the first to tend to him when he cried out had pushed her luck, but the attitude of her distant relatives had cooled and finally the raven she had been dreading had arrived.

Her parents wanted her to return home. They thought she had put upon High Hermitage's hospitality for too long, and it was about time she left her bastard behind and returned to her duties.

What duties? What could possibly be more important than being there for her son? She knew only too well what her parents wanted from her—they wanted to marry her off.

Thinking of her childhood home, Ashara remembered a younger, more naive version of herself in her room at the top of the tower they called the Palestone Sword. With her fair hair she'd imagined herself a lost Targaryen princess, for her accommodations had certainly been fit for royalty.

She'd always been beautiful, and everyone said that if ever there had been someone likely to make a good marriage it had been her. These compliments had always pleased her parents. Ashara herself had always been less concerned with title than winning herself a rugged, handsome Ser. From the moment she'd set eyes on him that knight she'd set her heart on years earlier had been Brandon Stark.

With a wan smile as she wrapped her lavender cloak around her, Ashara regretted her naivety and misguided actions. She'd listened to so many protestations of her beauty down the years that she'd thought that, once she'd decided who she wanted, that person would fall at her feet immediately.

No, she was older and wiser now.

For a second she wondered if, knowing how things had turned out, she would have acted any differently? Maybe the seduction of Brandon had been misguided, but without it she would never have gotten pregnant. Her strong baby boy was more than worth the fall from grace.

Did she miss her position at court? Her marriage prospects? No, not at all. Maybe she missed Elia's company and the other ladies-in-waiting, but position had never been at the forefront of Ashara's mind. She'd wanted love. And once she'd found love she wanted a family.

Fate had put both in her lap, and then snatched them away.

Ashara physically ached with the loss, and tried to distract herself with a small market selling trinkets and foreign curiosities. As the river led into the Summer Sea, many foreigners would set up in the towns and villages to sell their wares.

Running her fingers over a statuette of a strange beast that could almost be a wolf, Ashara found herself thinking of Eddard Stark.

If she had gone for the tamer wolf, maybe she could have had the family life she wanted. He would have been a good father, Ashara told herself. She might not have been inspired to the heights of passion, but one day he would make someone an ideal husband. He would be steady, faithful, and adore that woman. That woman could have been her.

And he was Lord of Winterfell now that Brandon had been murdered. But for how long? She'd heard whispers of the rebellion in the north and east of the country, and she knew that the king had called for Eddard's head.

If only things had been more settled, Ashara thought. She'd steal her child away and head to the frozen north. Eddard would take her in, she was sure. He might not be her towering, powerful knight but he would ensure she was safe and protected—and his bastard nephew, too.

But what chance did she have if he was away fighting a war? The mad king would send the best of his forces against the rebels and they would be crushed.

Ashara mourned the beautiful impossible dream and poor noble Eddard Stark's inevitable death, and tried to will another way to be with her child into fruition.

It was then that she caught sight of the blue-haired Tyroshi man and the bottles of exotic dyes he was selling. She looked carefully through them all. If she wanted, she could have hair of yellow, blue, green, red, black, purple...any colour you could think of.

Ashara picked a bottle up and read the label more closely. The Tyroshi salesman came over to assist her.

Ashara smiled. "This dye would change the colour of my hair? How much?"

"You have beautiful hair, my lady. It is white like fresh milk. It would be such a shame to alter it in any way, but yes, with hair as pale as yours any of these colours would take very well. Only one dragon for each."

With the widest of smiles, Lady Ashara reached into her pocket and handed over five gold coins.

~x~

Rhaegar

Rhaegar opened his eyes to the sound of insistent cawing, the way it was echoing in the black bedroom and the surreal angles of the familiar surroundings informing him that he was not yet awake. The three-eyed crow was perched on a nearby chair and continued his chorus.

It had been a while. Here at the Tower of Joy, his dreams had been happy or pleasurable ones for the most part, or at worst manifestations of his own guilt and conflict twisted into nightmarish symbolism.

This dream, however, was instantly different. As if the crow was not sign enough, there was that feeling he had felt many times before—most notably the last time the crow had shown him this place and the images hidden behind the doors that were now bedrooms for Lyanna, Arthur, and himself.

Rhaegar climbed out of bed, noticing that he was fully clothed, not naked as he had gone to sleep. Instead of his usual clothing, he found himself in worn black leather and a ragged black cloak. He looked over at Lyanna sleeping and somehow wasn't surprised to see that instead of a girl a huge wolf lay under the blankets.

The three-eyed crow hopped over to the ladders leading to the roof, and obediently Rhaegar climbed up and through the hatch.

Instead of Dorne, he found himself looking down at a collection of semi-destroyed buildings in the snow. A quick glimpse to his left told him exactly where this place was—a wall of ice towered above him. The Wall—the dividing line between the northern-most reaches of Westeros and the wild lands beyond.

That was when his blood began to scald him, and with a yelp he looked down at himself. His hands, usually well cared for, looked soiled, worn, and different, yet there was no sign of the fire that burned him.

"You said that, if I could look in the flames and tell you who your mother was, you would believe me. Come, Azor Ahai." A feminine voice with a thick accent spoke behind him.

Rhaegar turned around and saw a red-haired woman—a red priestess. Taking a few moments to think, Rhaegar recalled that Azor Ahai was the term used by the followers of R'hllor, and the equivalent to what Rhaegar believed was the Prince that was Promised.

Her red robes swirled in the snow as she stepped over to a burning brazier. Near the brazier, a huge white wolf basked in its warmth, its red eyes reflecting the flames. Rhaegar wondered whether the wolf was symbolic, as he felt hugely drawn and connected to the beast. In fact, it almost seemed as if he could see an echo of himself through its eyes, as if they were one and the same.

Rhaegar wondered whether it was the heat the wolf was feeling from this lonely fire that was scorching his flesh, as he himself was too far away, but the heat seemed to come from within. On his skin, Rhaegar could feel the bite of the cold, icy night, though it couldn't penetrate through the unseen flames.

Interested as to what the dream and the red woman might show him, he approached the brazier. Instantly, the fire burned brighter and more fiercely, and the red priestess smiled.

"Come. Look."

Rhaegar stepped closer and looked into the flames, but saw nothing but dancing yellow and orange.

"Your mother is dead. She did not survive long after your birth, but she lived long enough to name you, though that is not the name you carry now."

_My mother is not dead—she lives still, in King's Landing._ Rhaegar went to speak but couldn't force his lips to move. Instead, a different voice and a different question came from his mouth.

"What was her name?"

The flames surged again, and the red woman looked into the fire intensely. "Her name you've heard many times, though you've never thought of her as your mother. She is a noble woman, and she birthed you in Dorne—"

"No tricks. Give me a name." The strange voice that Rhaegar couldn't control asked again, though he felt the desperation behind the impatience.

"You know her as your aunt."

Something within Rhaegar recoiled, though he was now coming to realise that it was not his own reaction, and that he was merely observing through someone else's eyes. "No. That's not true. You're lying."

The red woman gave a stern look. "You asked me a question, Azor Ahai, and I have told you. Maybe the answer I should have given you is that the biggest mystery is not who was your mother, but instead who was your father. You have grown up thinking that you were fathered by Eddard Stark, but this is not true. It was a deception designed to hide your true parentage."

"But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Ned Stark tell everyone I was his bastard all these years? Who could he be protecting?"

The red woman gave a sympathetic look. "He made a promise to your mother on her deathbed—a promise to keep you safe. You might not be his son, but you are of his blood. He knew that if anyone knew your true heritage, you wouldn't live long enough to take your first steps. It seemed logical to claim you as his own, as you have the look of a Stark and it would be easy to believe."

"Who? I want a name!"

"There is power in your blood, Azor Ahai. I will give you his name, but first we must get you your flaming sword."

"You want to give me a pretty sword, like the one you gave Stannis? Didn't you think he was your lord for a while?" Rhaegar looked down to where his borrowed hands gripped the hilt of a sword, its hilt carved in the shape of a wolf's head.

"No, not like the sword I gave Stannis. I convinced myself he was the one, but I was wrong. That was a trick, an illusion. A wrong step on the road to finding the true saviour."

"How do you know you're not wrong this time? You think I'm the one to save us all from what's coming." Rhaegar's head indicated the ice wall. "I'd hate to go out there and face them only to find out you'd made another mistake."

The red priestess looked irritated. "There will be no more mistakes. Only fire can defeat the coldness of death and you, Azor Ahai, are R'hllor's champion. The dragons have come again in the east, yet the Targaryens squabble over the throne. They will not be here in time for the first assault—you will be. You can feel the fire in your veins, just as I feel it. That was a gift from R'hllor when he allowed me to bring you back."

"I thought you said it was because I went into the wolf."

Glaring, the woman held out her hand. "Give me your sword and I will show you that I am not wrong."

Rhaegar drew his wolf-headed sword, noticing that it was made of Valyrian steel, but not a blade that he was familiar with. Valyrian steel weapons were rare and expensive, and one did not come across them by chance. Valyrian steel was dragon steel, and as effective as obsidian against the ice demons that would come in the long night.

His borrowed hands held out the sword for the woman to take.

"So, Jon Snow, how well do you know the story of Azor Ahai?"

With a deep breath, Rhaegar sat up and found himself in bed, naked but covered with a thin blanket, with the grey light of early morning seeping through the window. Taking a moment to recognise that the snow, the Wall, and the red woman were gone, Rhaegar basked in the pleasant Dornish morning, glad that his skin no longer scalded him.

To his left, Lyanna shifted in her sleep and turned to fit into the nook by the side of his body. He allowed himself to lie there and enjoy her skin against his while he rationalised his dream in his mind.

He wondered who it was he had been watching in his dream. Jon Snow. Maybe he was the child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne? Snow was the surname they gave bastards in the north, and it seemed like the boy had been raised thinking he was the son of Eddard Stark, whose guardian and mentor was Jon Arryn. Rhaegar's mind went back to the time he'd seen him in Harrenhal's godswood with Lady Ashara.

Yes, that would make perfect sense. But was that child truly Azor Ahai? Rhaegar had convinced himself that the Prince that was Promised would come from his own line.

But weren't the Starks the Kings in the North before Aegon Targaryen had come and united the Seven Kingdoms? It could be said that a son of the Stark line was a prince, and the woman laying beside him a warrior princess.

"_The dragons have come again in the east, yet the Targaryens squabble over the throne. They will not be here in time for the first assault."_ Rhaegar remembered the red priestess's words. So the dragons will come. And there will be three, he already knew.

He kissed Lyanna on the forehead before extricating himself from the arms that tangled around him, and then climbed out of bed.


	40. Chapter 40

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Now, I'm going to try my best to approximate where everyone would have been at this point in time based on the information I have, but please forgive me if I'm a little out on a few facts.**

~X~

Chapter Forty – Calm Before the Storm (Part 2)

Benjen

Solemnly helping his older brother into his armour, Benjen silently pleaded, though he could see that Ned wasn't going to change his mind. He would be a good squire for the new Lord Stark, but then he knew he had to stay behind with the children and old men and be "the Stark in Winterfell" yet again, while Ned went off to war.

Along with the frustration of being unable to do anything, there was a strange sense of familiarity and that he'd been here before.

At first, when Ned arrived home, he'd been filled with dread over the idea of one of his two remaining siblings marching south to meet their doom, but after watching his brother practising in the yard with the family sword, he'd allowed himself to start dreaming that maybe it might be his glory he was heading towards.

Ever since he could remember, Brandon had always been the great warrior of the family as well as the heir. He was large, loud, and hard to miss, whereas the second brother was quiet, smaller, more likely to sit and read the books and parchments put before him. It was only now that he was out of Brandon's shadow that it became obvious that Ned was a very capable fighter in his own right.

Ben had watched him getting to grips with Ice in the courtyard, and had been impressed. Ned was more than just adequate with a sword—his technique wasn't fancy, but his technical ability was up there with the best he had seen. And he seemed to have grown since the last time he'd been in Winterfell, and while still not as tall as Brandon, he had definitely become a man.

During his lessons with Maester Walys, Benjen had mentioned his surprise that Ned had never entered the melee at Harrenhal, given his abilities. The maester had replied that Ned had never been fond of attention, and that maybe a capable but inconspicuous Lord Stark was exactly what the North needed right now.

The Starks were caught between the appetite for justice from the Northern lords who had lost their sons and fathers when Brandon rode on King's Landing, and a king who saw only offence and rebellion. Ned was making the right choice in marching South, but Maester Walys was hoping for him only to make enough of an impression to be able to negotiate a compromise. In his opinion, Ned would do as well of a job as his father would in the circumstances.

Ben tried not to think about what had happened to his father when he'd rode south to King's Landing, and instead, he tried to dream up a heroic tale where Eddard the Brave and his friends, Robert the Bold and Jon the Wise, fought their way to King's Landing, where the mad king was cooked alive in his own castle and his head put on a spike. Once the tyrant was overthrown, King Rhaegar took the throne with fierce Queen Lyanna by his side.

At the queen's request, and through his own battle prowess and famous tourney victories, Benjen Stark became a celebrated member of the king's guard, and then they all lived happily ever after.

It was a beautiful tale, but it was soured every time Ben thought about the armies that his brother would come up against. Eddard might be good with a sword, and Robert Baratheon and his war hammer were already spoken of, but then there were a considerable number of great lords and famous warriors on the side of the king.

Ben pressed his lips together in a tight line and concentrated on the buckle he was working on.

Ned was coming back, he reassured himself. And so was Lyanna. And then he'd never be left alone in Winterfell ever again.

~x~

Ned

Once he was wearing his full armour, his father's sword securely strapped across his back, Ned looked down at Ben. He'd done a good job of demonstrating that he would be a good squire, and though Ned would love to indulge his wish, the task was too dangerous.

Should anything happen to Ned himself, then Benjen would be Lord of Winterfell and the last male descendent of the Starks. If anything were to happen to Ben, then their line would rest with Lyanna, whose fate was very much in the hand of Rhaegar Targaryen, wherever they might be.

"When I come home, then you can go squire for Lord Bolton."

Benjen pulled a face. "What if he doesn't come back?"

"Then no doubt there will be many northern lords looking for a new squire."

Both brothers looked each other in the eyes.

"What if you don't come back?"

Ned was as solemn as ever. "Then you'll be Lord Stark and you can do as you like."

Finally dressed and prepared, Ned left his father's room and walked through the familiar corridors. Ben trotted along at his side, keeping up easily as he wasn't weighed down with plate.

Once Ned got to the courtyard, he found a crowd waiting for him. The collective anticipation was overwhelming.

If it was his father standing here, or Jon Arryn, then they would no doubt say something wise. If it was Brandon or Robert, then they would bellow something that would fire up the men and ready them for war. But they weren't here, and the crowd was waiting for Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, to speak.

He stepped forward, feeling entirely unprepared, and took a few moments to compose himself.

"I'm not the first Stark to lead you and your families south to seek justice for the actions of the Targaryens. My brother and my father have gone before me, and we have all suffered loss. Just like you all gathered here today, I want to see King Aerys feel the consequences of his actions. He and his son have wronged the north, and we will not stand by and do nothing. "

The courtyard was quiet and Ned was unsure whether this was a good sign or not. He cleared his throat and tried to raise his usually calm and quiet voice.

"I can't promise you great victories or glorious battle, but I will promise you that I will be beside you every step of the way. I will lead you south, to join with the armies of the Vale and the Stormlands, and to seek vengeance for our fathers, our brothers, our sons, and our uncles."

This went down much better and Ned was relieved to hear a few cheers. Before climbing onto his horse, decked out in Stark white and grey, he paused to lay a gauntleted hand on Ben's shoulder.

"Look after Winterfell for me. Listen to Maester Walys."

Ben nodded. "Bring Lyanna home with you."

Ned gave a sad smile. "I will find her and bring her home...if I can."

Once mounted, the young Lord Eddard Stark turned his horse towards the gates, trying not to listen to the women and children crying out to their men folk who fell into line behind him. Beyond the gates, he found his cavalry, archers, and infantrymen had already packed up their tents and were ready to leave.

By the time he passed under the thick stone walls, two Stark banners were flying by his side, yet Ned felt less than glorious heading for battle at the head of an army of angry northern men. If anything, he felt sick to his stomach.

~x~

Lyanna

It had taken Lyanna a little while longer than usual to dress this morning, but she finally made her way over to the familiar wooden table where Arthur was already eating.

Adjusting her shoulders, her splendid flowered breast plate felt tighter than usual, and uncomfortable. Plus she felt far from rested this morning.

"Good morning," Ser Arthur said politely as she sat. "Rhaegar woke early this morning, and he left word that he won't be here for your lessons today but he'll see us this evening."

Lyanna nodded—her love enjoyed his solitude, and it was hardly a loss to have to settle for being trained by one of the most skilful swordsmen in Westeros. She smiled up at the cook as she laid her customary plate of eggs fried with peppers and onions in front of her.

But then the wolf knight's face dropped as the usually delicious smell drifted up her nostrils and curdled in her stomach. Bolting away from the table, she only got as far as a collection of barrels before she retched.

~x~

Arthur

Lyanna had been looking a little pale for about a week, her illness apparent with the lack of strength in her swings of late, and Arthur looked on with sympathy as it seemed it had gotten the better of her.

Though he severely doubted that he would be able to convince her to rest even a little until she was recuperated. If he'd had any misgivings over whether his friend was doing the right thing by training a girl to be a knight, then Lyanna had dispelled them thoroughly. She was fierce, enthusiastic, and undoubtedly talented.

He would go easy on her today, though she wouldn't like it.

The cook to his left made a noise of disapproval and then refilled his mug of water. "The gods bless her. She should not be fighting in her condition."

"No, but you're braver than I am if you want to be the one to tell her." Arthur took a deep drink.

The Dornish woman smiled. "She is a strong woman and fierce, and with a babe in her she is only likely to be more so, but right now she is probably feeling as weak as a kitten. She should not be fighting while with child."

Arthur sprayed his water across the table, and wiped his face as he looked up at the woman and then across at Lyanna.

"You did not know? It is as obvious as the nose on my face. It was always going to happen—and soon, going on as they have." The cook nodded towards the top of the tower.

Arthur felt the world shift underneath him as the fact that Lyanna was bearing Rhaegar's child registered. Getting up from his seat, he followed the cook over to where she offered to help Lyanna to her feet.

"Come. Let me help you out of your armour. You're in no state to be battling today."

"I'm fine. Once I have some breakfast I'll be ready."

The woman shook her head. "No—no fighting for you." She reached out a hand to Lyanna's stomach. "When did you last have your moon blood?"

"My moon's blood? You mean..." Lyanna's brow furrowed and then relaxed, her eyes growing wide. "No, it's just a stomach complaint. I'm fine. Really I am."

"You look tired, almost as white as a ghost." She held a tan hand to Lyanna's greyish cheek. "And your breasts, they feel tender and swollen, yes?"

Lyanna said nothing and her panicked eyes found Arthurs.

With a deep swallow, he took a step back. "I will go fetch Rhaegar straight away."

Running over to the stables, Arthur urgently saddled his horse, pausing only to watch the cook leading Lyanna inside the Tower of Joy.


	41. Chapter 41

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Now, I'm going to try my best to approximate where everyone would have been at this point in time based on the information I have, but please forgive me if I'm a little out on a few facts.**

~X~

Chapter Forty One – Calm Before the Storm (Part 3)

Oswell

As Oswell gathered his belongings together for the long road back to Dorne, Rhaegar, and Lyanna Stark, he became aware of a presence in the sparse white room in the White Sword Tower that he shared with most of his fellow Kingsguard brothers.

"Lord Commander," Oswell said respectfully as Ser Gerold Hightower stepped inside the room.

"Oswell," the Old Bull replied in greeting, but Oswell could see in his eyes that he was not here to socialise. "I was thinking I might join you on the first leg of your journey, if you don't mind."

The meaningful stare that Ser Gerold gave the walls spoke volumes, and Oswell said he'd enjoy the company. As they saddled up, they discussed whether Arthur was keeping well and other banalities, and the real reason for the conversation wasn't brought up until Kings Landing and the Red Tower were disappearing into the distance.

"Oswell, you've always been a man who will speak his mind and call a spade a spade, and I trust you to tell me your honest opinion, no matter how ugly."

The two white knights looked at each other, Oswell seeing deadly seriousness in his old mentor's eyes.

"How is the prince's state of mind? We both know only too well of the king's madness, and while you've been away it's only grown worse. I've always consoled myself that he is an old man and that Prince Rhaegar is a good and sane man. Now, after recent events, I'm not so sure. Has the apple fallen far from the tree?"

Oswell thought for a while. "Oh, he has a madness at the moment, but only the type that most men experience at some point in their lives. He loves Lyanna Stark, no doubt about it, and she loves him in return. It pains me to bring the news back that the king won't allow them to marry."

"But to throw everything up in the air over a woman, insulting his wife and his subjects. Is she worth it?"

Oswell didn't hesitate. "Yes. If I had been in his boots, knowing what I do of her now, I would have done the same thing." He looked over at Ser Gerold's raised eyebrows. "She would have been a wonderful queen."

Ser Gerold chewed over what he'd heard. "But the prince already has a princess, and the Targaryens no longer take more than one wife. Lewyn feels very strongly about how Rhaegar has treated his niece."

Oswell thought about his kingsguard brother, Prince Lewyn Martell, brother of Princess Elia's mother, the ruling Princess of Dorne. He could understand his offence, but then of all the current members of the guard, surely he could understand how it felt to compromise one's vows to keep a paramour. Lewyn had a mistress, despite his vows of chastity, though only a select few knew.

"It isn't nearly as scandalous as the gossips would have you believe. The relationship was very...courtly...until recently. If you met her, spoke to her, then you'd learn Lyanna Stark's quality and why Rhaegar's head was turned. Is she worth civil war? Well, I would say no, but that's probably because I don't have the benefit of having her to call my own."

Thinking of Lyanna in her armour, Oswell felt the familiar pang of jealousy. Keeping his own vow of chastity had never felt so hard as when he sparred, both verbally and physically, with the dark-haired girl of his dreams. Yet she was permanently out of his reach, and his vow was as safe as it could be.

"The Hand assures the king that the rebel uprising is just a minor skirmish that will be easily dealt with, but the man is a fool and I disagree with him. He cannot stand up to the king's will like Lord Tywin could, and I fear that the lack of a sane ruler is going to escalate the situation." Ser Gerold gave a pointed look. "That's why I need you to convince the prince to come back to King's Landing and use his influence to take charge."

Trying to decipher exactly what he was hearing, Oswell wondered whether Ser Gerold was merely requesting Rhaegar's calming and sensible presence, or something more. The message in Ser Gerold's eyes suggested the latter.

"How do the rest of the king's guard feel?"

"Lewyn, as I've said, is none too pleased with Prince Rhaegar, and if he were to examine where his loyalties lie I would say they lie with Dorne. He approves of the king's decision to deny a second marriage, but I don't think he quite sees it as justice. I don't think he would abandon his vows lightly, but if he does, it will be for his niece."

Nodding, Oswell replied, "Arthur is as close to Rhaegar as always. I don't think we need wonder how he would side. What about Barristan? Young Ser Jaime? Darry?"

"Barristan will keep his oath to the true king without question. I think the only way to secure his loyalty would be to remove the throne from Aerys and make Rhaegar the undisputed ruler. Until then, anyone opposing the king will oppose Barristan."

Oswell made a noise of agreement.

"Jaime is very much a Lannister, and despite the king torturing him and never letting him out of his sight, I think he will side with whomever his father chooses. Still, I think Aerys is making the kingsguard vows seem much less glamourous. For now I tell him not to judge the king and his actions, but the boy is still impressionable and I think he could be persuaded to see the sense in Rhaegar taking the throne. Darry, I have yet to decide which side he would fall on."

"So the king's guard would be split in two, if the son were to try and take control, not to mention the divide in the kingdom. A small rebellion could soon become war across the entire land."

"It could." Gerold brought his horse to a halt. "But I think that civil war might come sooner if nothing is done to curb the king's madness. It seems as if we're stuck between a rock and a hard place, when keeping one vow means forsaking another. Bring what I've told you to Rhaegar. I'm sure he will listen and think on it. If you need to send word, you know where to find me."

With that, Ser Gerold turned around and headed back to King's Landing, and the ride continued for Oswell, his thoughts weighing heavy as the miles disappeared beneath his horse's hooves.

~x~

Howland

Riding south amongst the Northmen, Howland watched now familiar countryside pass by. Only this time the mood of the caravan was much different.

When he'd left his swamps, he'd been seeking adventure and new experiences, and that he'd certainly found. Now he wanted more than anything to be back home, amongst his fellow crannogman, rather than riding south to war.

Yet, he felt obligated to stay. Howland thought back to Harrenhal and the sequence of events that followed, and the part he had played. Lord Stark and Brandon Stark, the wild wolf, were dead. Young Benjen was back in Winterfell, and Howland had seen how hard that sat on his young friend's shoulders. Now the quiet wolf had stepped into his father's shoes, and Howland was wondering if he'd ever see Lyanna Stark again.

Howland remembered her attacking the squires with a tourney sword, helping her put on her brother's mismatched armour and jousting, and the road to Riverrun to see Brandon wed—a journey no one completed.

His own personal guilt weighed heavy, and it was this that made him press on, riding amongst knights and archers. He'd been given a Stark short sword, a leather jerkin, and a bow and arrow, but Howland had found himself a blow pipe and made some darts, weapons he was more comfortable with.

He didn't doubt that he would be called upon to use them, and the thought petrified him.

~x~

Jon

In his tent, Jon listened to the knights pointing to the map of they were all gathered around.

"We were ambushed by archers here...and then we came across a few dead Targaryens here. Ventured across some hill tribesmen, I think. All their weapons and anything of value was taken, but I think there are more out there along the East Road."

Jon nodded. "They keep sending small forces rather than openly face us on the field. What news from Storm's End?"

A messenger stepped forward and handed over a scroll. "From Lord Robert. He says most of his bannermen are at Storm's End, and have agreed to gather their forces. He awaits word from you, milord."

Jon looked over the note in Robert's familiar handwriting, reading the names that his protégé had given as not attending and mentally placing their castles on the map before him. Fell, Grandison, Cafferen.

The Targaryens hadn't sent any considerable force to the Vale, and the word from Eddard heading south was that the King's Road was clear so far.

Staring at the map, Jon wondered whether the king had set his sights father South. The Starks were still travelling, and everyone knew that the Eeyrie was impregnable and the East Road dangerous. Maybe his plan was to cut off the rebellion in the Stormlands by catching an impulsive young lord in his own castle and defeating him with his own bannermen? Lords could be turned from their liege lord with the promise of lands and new titles...

The ruined Targaryen palace of Summerhall would be an ideal place for the three lords to gather before marching on Storm's End and catching the others unawares. Was there time to cut them off? No, not with the distance between. Robert would have to deal with this himself.

And if he failed? Well then the rebellion would be crushed just as the king hoped. It would take too long for Eddard to arrive, and Jon's own army was scattered after dealing with the king's forces piecemeal. What they needed was at least one more lord onside, to bolster their numbers and counter the loss of the bannermen that had not flocked to Robert's call.

"I need to send a message."

The messenger stepped forward but Jon held up his hand.

"No, I have a different errand for you. I'll write a note for you to take to Lord Stark once we're done here, telling him where to meet us. You'll put it in his hands and his hands alone."

The messenger nodded and stepped back.

"Bring me a maester and a raven for Storm's End. I need to send Robert a warning. Once that is done, I will leave some of you here to hold the East Road, others south to Storm's End, and the rest to follow me."

The maester arrived and handed Lord Arryn a small piece of paper, which he took and scribbled upon with urgency.

_Summerhall—leave immediately and travel fast. The names you've given me will likely meet you there and soon. Try to get there first. JA._

As soon as he was done and had given his knights and lords their instructions, Jon took the time to write the letter to Eddard. His quill weighed as heavy as the words he was writing as he was asking much, but he knew Eddard would follow his instructions without question.

Then Jon himself had work to do, and that night, with no pause to sleep, he was at the head of his cavalry heading west with all the speed he could muster. This errand could change what was a very delicate balance of fortune depending on the whims of the gods, the speed of a young boy and his newfound army, and the favour of a very proud man.


	42. Chapter 42

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**Apologies for the long wait. I'm glad to say that my final assignments and exams are out of the way and I'm no longer a student (pending resits). Robert has been hanging around at Summerhall for so long he's probably sick of the place!**

**Because this looks like it's turning into a mammoth chapter, there will be a short Summerhall Part 2, but I'm aware you've waited long enough and I just want to get this out there while I can.**

~X~

Chapter Forty Two – Summerhall (Part 1)

Robert was amongst the first to emerge from the tree line, looking around apprehensively even though faster-riding scouts had already informed them that Summerhall was deserted—his force had managed to get there first, but how far away his opponents were, no one knew.

A sea of tall, purple-topped weeds had grown up right up to the base of a steep-sided hillock, on top of which was a tangle of blackened ornate stone arches, crumbling walls, and charred, rotting beams which once supported a roof but now looked like the ribs of some long deceased beast. A slain dragon, Robert thought to himself.

Over twenty years ago, before Robert's birth, Summerhall had been a Targaryen summer palace. It had burned to the ground with King Aegon V inside, and his son and heir. Early morning mist weaved amongst the weeds and ruins; you could almost imagine it was smoke and that the fire damage was fresh. It was apt—this was the beginning of Robert's quest to slay his own dragon, the beast that had stolen his love and flown her away.

They said Rhaegar came here regularly, camping amongst the wreckage of the palace inhabited only by ghosts. What wouldn't Robert give to find him here now? He would gladly add another Targaryen spirit to haunt the place.

It would be better that way, if it could be ended here and now—a simple trial by combat between two accomplished warriors. Rhaegar would answer for his own sins as well as those of his father, and Robert would gladly take up his war hammer knowing that right was on his side. In return for the deaths of Lord Stark, Brandon Stark, and the other northerners—and of course, the abduction of Lyanna—he wanted to see Rhaegar Targaryen dead.

But it wasn't meant to be. There was no one here but the stream of cavalry behind him. No Rhaegar. Instead of man against man this would be settled army against army. Where one life lost would placate Robert, many widows and orphans would be made instead, and many sons taken from their families.

It was unfamiliar. Robert knew the melee and it was well known, but he had never commanded men on a field of battle. He knew the theory, taught by Jon Arryn with stone figurines on a wooden table, but he wasn't playing with tokens this time. These knights were flesh and blood, and the wooden table would be this ruined palace.

Where he could control the swing of his own hammer, he couldn't control the actions of some green squire whose name he didn't know and who would probably end up skewered by a spear or sword. He himself, despite his tourney experience, had never killed a man. Could he kill when it counted?

He had no other choice. He had been left no choice. King Aerys had burnt Lord Stark and Brandon in cold blood. Robert couldn't be faint of heart now his life and his love was in the balance, and the lives of his friends, his brothers, his men...

If he hadn't left Storms End after receiving Jon Arryn's reply then he would have been caught there, and the only thing worse in Robert's mind than leading a number of unprepared men to possibly die in his name was being under siege in his own castle for the duration of the rebellion, sitting in his hall, starving to death and hoping for news of his friends' fortunes.

Almost all of the knights and lords who had flocked to his banners had still been on hand, having remained to take advantage of generous Baratheon hospitality. He'd been feasting and laughing with them in the great hall when the messenger had arrived. After reading the note, Robert had gotten to his feet and announced that the time had come for those who had answered the call to back up their promises with action.

Most had still been drunk and agreed vocally, and even the sober had seemed to have little reservation. Knights had gone to dress in their armour, and foot soldiers had gathered outside the walls. Riders had been dispatched to various castles and towers to call up more men. The scene had been one of urgent chaos, leading to a mad dash across country by torch light.

For now, only the cavalry had been swift enough to arrive, riding all night. The foot soldiers were still on the road and when reinforcements would arrive was anyone's guess. At the moment they were too few to face the three lords headed their way, and no doubt every one of his fifty-five hungover knights and their squires were aware of it.

"We should set up our position, my lord," an aging Ser called to Robert, catching his attention and pulling him from his thoughts.

Coming back to the matter at hand, Robert tried to view the field as if it were a table in Jon Arryn's library. The clearing was roughly oval in shape, the ruin situated closer to the northern perimeter, with disused and overgrown roads from the north west, west, south, and east. Anything coming from the east was likely to be friendly, and unless the suspicions of less friendly forces were aroused, it would be likely they would use the pathways rather than tackle the undergrowth.

How large was the force being mustered against him? Who would arrive first and when? Would he have time to defeat one lord before the next arrived?

One thing was certain, the greatest weapon at his disposal was surprise. It would be a shame to lose that advantage. No doubt Lord Fell, Lord Cafferen, and Lord Grandison would scout ahead like Robert himself had done.

"We'll conceal ourselves in the undergrowth to the south east and wait. Gods willing they won't have met along the way, and when the first of these bastards arrive we'll ambush them."

A younger knight, perhaps around Robert's own age, questioned his plan. "Would it not be wiser to wait for the infantry and the archers? After all, we are not many."

Robert looked at him straight in the eye. "I'm not going to sit around, hiding in the bushes like a peeping Tom, while they get themselves organised. Knights, a few squires and sell swords—we'd struggle to stay hidden with more. If we're quick they might never know what hit them. They'll probably head towards the open ground to the south, and on my signal we let them know we're here."

The knight nodded. Trying to leave as little evidence of their presence as possible they made their way across the meadow of weeds to the designated spot. From within the trees, they had an obstructed view of the intended field of battle, but a few squires up trees kept lookout.

Horses twitched nervously as they waited, and Robert hoped that a stray whinny wouldn't give their position away. It wasn't only the horses that were showing their nerves.

Finally, a rustling in the trees above caught Robert's attention, and a skinny boy shimmied down the trunk.

"Two fawns on green, heading this way," the squire said as loud as he dared. "Only half as many knights but I counted three rows of ten archers, with foot soldiers behind."

"Did you see how many soldiers on foot, Ulfrid?" Another knight who Robert knew well from Harrenhal asked. Robert looked at his free hand—the one not holding onto one of the two Baratheon standards that had made the journey with the cavalry—and saw that it shook a little. So Robert wasn't the only one finding battle for the first time today.

"No, Ser. I didn't stop to count."

"No matter. We know they're coming." Robert looked at his own gauntleted hand, gripping his reins. His squire handed him his war hammer, struggling with the weight. Robert had no such trouble. It felt familiar and the effort required to hold it in one fist stopped any nervous shaking.

It seemed like an age before movement appeared beyond the trees, and all eyes were on Lord Robert Baratheon. He shifted his war hammer across his lap and held his arm in the air.

Casually, shouts could be heard, organising Lord Cafferen's men. Green and white knights dismounted, and archers and soldiers took drinks from skins and food from their packs.

Robert brought his hand down in a sudden moment, grabbing his war hammer and joining the surge of horses, accelerating as fast as they could with their heavily armoured burdens.

Looking ahead, Robert could see that the sound of galloping hooves had caught the attention of a number of men on the other side of the tree line. Some got to their feet, but few had time to react before he burst into clear view, being unable to hold himself from crying out, "Storm's End!" as his heart pounded hard and he prepared to swing his hammer.

Robert lurched, and suddenly felt a sensation of flying as his horse stumbled beneath him. Earth and sky twisted until his body jarred against the ground. A shock ran through him, from shoulder to thigh, and with a grunt Robert found himself lying on his back.

After a few moments, the clang of metal on metal and a piercing whinny reminded him of where he was and what he was doing. Struggling to get to his feet, Robert lifted his visor to see his horse pierced by an arrow to the neck, thrashing for a second before becoming still. Close by one of his own knights, still mounted, trampled and slashed his way through a group of green and white soldiers only a few paces to his right.

With a stumble, Robert found himself upright, stiff and sore, with fighting all around him. Feeling as if he was caught in the eye of a storm, he looked around and found his war hammer lying next to his dead horse. Retrieving it, he barely had a moment to wrap his hands around its shaft before he caught movement out of the side of his eye.

A boy, ginger-haired and a good two heads shorter, was sprinting in Robert's direction, his freckled face wrinkled up in a half-roar. The sword he carried was lifted high, drawn back to strike.

Feeling as if each heartbeat took an eternity, Robert pulled his hammer from the ground and swung. It caught the sword-wielding boy square in the chest, connecting with his breast plate with an almighty thud. The force physically knocked Robert's would-be opponent to the floor, the sword flying from his hand.

Robert took three steps forward, standing over him. The boy's caved in armour bore a huntsman on green—House Tarly. With a splutter, the boy coughed up a mouthful of blood, coating his chin in deepest scarlet. Robert didn't pause as he lifted up his hammer to strike once more.

"Wait," his victim choked. "Wait!"

The hammer struck his head, and after a brief tremor throughout his body, the Tarly boy went still, as did Robert as he looked down on him.

_My first._

But there was no time to come to terms with what he'd done. An older man, his face lined and grimy, framed with straggling black hair, came at Robert with a mace. His other hand held a shield. Robert swung his arm with all the power he could muster. His first two blows were deflected, but the third connected with the man's shoulder with a sickening crunch. When he crumpled over in agony, Robert brought the hammer down on his back.

Next, an archer about to let loose an arrow at one of Robert's men, and then a foot soldier who gave a good fight before he died. Every time there was another man to take the place of those who'd fell. Robert was struck by how he found time to notice the face of each—one with his front teeth missing, another with a bleeding gash across his face, an old man, a young man...another, and then another.

A green and white knight charged in Robert's direction. Standing his ground, he saved all his strength for the moment when he stepped to the side, rolling out of the way to miss both the horse and the blade headed his way, but remaining close enough to tangle his hammer amongst the beast's legs.

The horse fell, taking its rider with it. As he approached the Ser, he rolled over and lifted his visor. A middle aged man with a familiar face gave a painful grimace.

"I yield! I yield...the field is yours..."

Realising there was more grey in his beard than the last time he'd seen him, when he'd been newly orphaned, Robert finally placed the features of the man below. Lord Cafferen.

Breathing hard and taking a moment to allow the red mist to dissipate, he didn't know whose horn rang out but realisation rippled out in circles. Men paused mid-skirmish, looking to their lords for guidance.

Finally deciding on his next move, Robert held out his hand to his fallen bannerman. There was a moment of silence as they looked one another in the eyes. Lord Cafferen accepted the gesture with a firm grip and allowed Robert to help him to his feet.

"How did you know?" the defeated knight asked.

"I threw a feast. You weren't there."

Lord Cafferen thought for a moment before sheepishly adding, "I wasn't the only one. Fell and Grandison..."

"I know, and that's why I'm going to ask your men to fight for me. If you won't answer my call to arms, maybe they will?"

"You want them to fight alongside the same men that they just fought against? On the same field that their dead kin still lie on?"

Robert walked a short way, making his way through the bodies, over to where his horse had fallen. "And why not? What brought them here in the first place? They came here because you, as their lord, commands it. The Stormlands are still mine. Why wouldn't they fight for me?"

His opponent couldn't answer and so remained silent.

Young Lord Robert Baratheon stood tall and raised his voice. "I didn't come here to dye this field red with the blood of my own people. Nor did I come here to fill my dungeons with good, honourable, brave men.

"I came here today to fight your lord. The king promised him more land, more castles, and so he brought you here to die...and what benefit would those castles or that land bring you or your families? Nothing, that's what." He held the attention of both his own men and the vanquished.

A voice rang out amongst the hushed crowd. "And what benefit do your men get for fighting for you? I hear you came here for a girl."

"That's true, in part. Rhaegar Targaryen stole the women I was going to marry, Lyanna Stark—took her like she was some common whore from a backstreet brothel, not the highborn lady she is. He dishonoured her, dishonoured me, and dishonoured her family. Her brother, Brandon Stark, went to King Aerys with his grievance and he was thrown in jail, his men butchered like vermin in a trap. Any survivors, he brought their fathers to Kings Landing and put all their heads on spikes.

"It doesn't matter how high the lord. Lord Stark, Warden of the North, asked for trial by combat, and was prepared to draw his own sword and let the gods decide the more honourable cause, and how did the king answer? He burned Lord Stark in his own armour, and had his heir strangle himself to death trying to save him.

"The king says fire is the Targaryen champion. I say that's a coward's excuse. He knew the gods weren't on his side. And still he avoids picking up a sword himself. How many red dragons on black do you see on this field? That's right, none. The Mad King and his son, the 'whiter than white' Prince Rhaegar, they do what they want and send others to fight their battles. "

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"What offence have I given the Targaryens? They stole my bride and didn't raise a sword in anger against them, although I wanted to. God, did I want to. Yet I'm the one fighting to keep my head on my shoulders, and the head of Lord Stark, though his brother and father have already paid for their complaints with their lives. And the Targaryens don't even have the decency to take to the field themselves, or send their own men. I'm here fighting my own wars.

"I don't want to cross swords with my own people. I don't want to see men die in the name of a king who treats his own subjects as if their lives meant nothing, so he and his son can abuse their positions as if it was their gods given right. Any man on this field who will join me in showing this...king, if you can call him that, that we won't stand for his way of ruling, will be welcome. Who will fight for me now?"

The response was overwhelming. After it was obvious where the loyalty of his own men lay, Lord Cafferen himself stepped forward and put his hand on Robert's shoulder.

"You have a way with words, young Lord Baratheon. I'll answer your call to arms, albeit a little late."

Shifting the weight of his hammer, Robert nodded, and as the fire in his blood dissipated, he began to feel weary. Surveying the destruction around him he caught sight of the knight with the shaking hand in the woods before the attack, lying on the ground still gripping Robert's banner.

Picking his way through the other bodies, Robb made his way over, bending down to retrieve his colours, but before he could a stench assaulted his nostrils and his face wrinkled.

He found Lord Cafferen standing over him. "I remember him from Harrenhal. Didn't he fight in the melee?"

Robert nodded his head.

"A little less glorious than playing at war on a tourney field, isn't it? Messier. Bloodier. No one shits themselves play fighting."

"Does that always happen?"

Lord Cafferen gave Robert a sympathetic look. "We're all just sacks of meat and bone in the end, and one day that will be me or you, lying somewhere—in the mud or in our beds—and the last thing we do on earth is empty our bowels. Not very dignified...not very knightly."

Robert got to his feet, leaving the banner where it lay. He caught the attention of one of Lord Cafferen's knights passing by. "I want every banner, every green and white tent you can find, and I want you to set up camp on that." He pointed to the ruin on the top of the motte. "We're not going to be able to hide this. It's going to be the first thing they see when they arrive so let them think you bested me."

Lord Cafferen smiled. "You're not as green as you would think a boy of your age, are you?"

As his new found ally departed, Robert retrieved his belongings from his dead horse, and on the way back he found himself stood over the Tarly boy, or what remained of him. Again, the smell of excrement rose up from the mangled corpse and Robb took a moment to comprehend his first kill.

If the Tarly boy had succeeded, if Robert had paused for a second or two longer before picking up his hammer, or had been slower to rise after being thrown, then the rebellion would have been cut off before Robert had time to swing in anger. The boy had been brave, but stupid. Robb didn't even have a name to put to him, but something told him the freckled face and the ginger hair that was now a red mangled mess would haunt him for some time to come.

He thought about the faces of the others whose lives had been cut prematurely short after being on the receiving end of his war hammer. The most surreal part of it was that, no matter how Robert struggled to come to terms with his actions now, that in the full flow of battle he'd felt free. He'd been aware of his own strength—swinging his weapon had felt like the easiest thing on earth, and he knew now that having to hold back the killer blow during practice or melee was going to feel unnatural.

Once arrived at the "Cafferen" camp that had been set up amongst the charred Targaryen palace, Robert had time for a bite to eat and a swig of wine, before the signal that the next errant lord was on his way. This time Robert found himself sat next to Lord Cafferen, watching from a height, hoping he wouldn't lose the element of surprise.

Lord Grandison made his way half way across the open space before those at the head of the column realised something was amiss, at which point Robert ordered his Cafferen archers to open fire before leading his cavalry onto the field for the second time that day.

This time, things didn't go as well, and the surprise did not give him the advantage he'd hoped for as the Grandison force recovered quickly and had numerical advantage. If it hadn't been for the eventual arrival of the Baratheon reinforcements, he doubted that Lord Cafferen would have been able to talk Lord Grandison into laying down his arms.

As Robert listened to Lord Cafferen give a colourful account of Robert smashing through the trees, looking almost like the Warrior himself, and Lord Grandison's misgivings about not wanting to end up decorating a spike in King's Landing for switching his alliegances and going back on the king's offer, Robert realised that he had found a fortunate ally.

Finally, after much argument, Lord Grandison agreed, and Robert even had time to close his eyes for a short while before he was called to mount up again, though he did not sleep thanks to the ghost of his first kills come to haunt him.

~X~

To be continued...


	43. Chapter 43

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

**I'm having trouble finishing Summerhall Part 2, so to try and keep the story moving, here is a brief interlude. Some harp playing for Kitkat, in return for a lovely review.**

~X~

Chapter Forty Three – Faith

As Arthur approached, his prince gave a melancholy twitch of his lips and continued playing. Sitting himself on the opposite side of the bench, the knight of the king's guard took a moment to listen. Since arriving in Dorne Rhaegar hadn't often taken out his harp, but tonight he was immersed in his music.

The situation felt familiar—how many nights had Arthur sat and stared at the stars while listening to his friend's harp. You could always tell Rhaegar's mood by the tone and lyrics of the songs he sang or composed.

Tonight the prince was in a dark frame of mind.

Saying nothing, Arthur mixed a little wine with water until his musical companion uncharacteristically hit a duff note and dropped his precious harp on the table in frustration. Their eyes met but Arthur left it to his friend to break the silence, should he wish to talk about what was vexing him.

"Do you believe in what I dream, Arthur?"

"Of course. I always have."

The prince picked up his harp and inspected the strings. Almost absentmindedly he asked, "And what if my dreams aren't the prophecies I thought they were. What if it transpired that they were simply dreams?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, there's too much truth in them for them to be nothing. You were right about the three dragons. You saw Lyanna. I would stake my life on what you dream."

Rhaegar breathed heavily through his mouth for a moment, as if in physical pain. "If a simple man has a dream that stays with him and tells all around him that he believes it is the truth, then they'll likely cry madness. If a king or a prince has the same dream, then it is a prophecy. My father has dreams too..."

"Your father is losing his grip on his mind and his dreams make no sense. You and I both know that."

"And who is to say I don't have the beginnings of insanity. If I hadn't dreamed of a direwolf knight would I have been looking at the Starks so closely and found Lyanna was the mystery knight? Was that foresight, or maybe I simply read things where there is nothing to be read, fulfilling my own fancies because I am in a high enough position to do so? My father wasn't always mad. He was a good man, and did much as I would have done in his place. Until Duskendale... I know what they say about Targaryens—flip the coin for brilliance and madness. Maybe my coin has turned as his did?"

"You are not your father." Arthur gave his friend a serious look, but his friend did not seem comforted.

"I wish I believed less in my dreams. It might have been better for my peace of mind had you said you thought they were nonsense. I had a dream before I realised my child was in Lyanna's belly. At the time I thought it told me the Prince that was Promised was your sister's child. Now, I realise I was mistaken."

"Then the Prince that was Promised is your son, as you always believed—"

Rhaegar raised his voice, and the unfamiliarity of the usually composed prince's tone shocked. "But what if I am wrong? What if I want to be wrong?" Seeing Arthur's sudden stiffness, the prince softened. "If my dreams are simply a logical putting together of what I have read and seen down the years, and the likely outcome, can I change the destiny of the people around me?"

Arthur took a moment to take in his dearest of friends. His violet eyes were wide and anxious, his face drawn and his fingers splayed uncomfortably wide on the table. "Are you losing your faith?"

The Prince followed Arthur's gaze to his tensed hands. "I feel like I am at a fork in the road. Down one path are the beliefs I've clung to for so long—the prophecies, the long night, the Prince that was Promised, the three-headed dragon...I've been so committed to preparing for what is to come for so long. I've read so much and been horrified. To abandon my preparations now would leave Westeros unready for those horrors. It would be a total dereliction of my duty as Crown Prince...and yet, in walking that path have I ignored another path entirely. I've had dreams where my father has allowed the country to burn while others squabble over it. Instead I have gone off on a frolic of my own, chasing dreams, more concerned with impregnating Lyanna Stark—"

"That's not true. You dreamt of a direwolf knight and she is here, sleeping in this tower as we speak. She is a talent that would otherwise have been wasted, some high lord's wife, bearing children to pick up swords and never showing what she was really capable of. You did what you set out to do, you made her a knight—one as good as any twenty knights you might choose."

The Prince picked up his harp and experimentally toyed with the strings. "Yes, I did what I set out to do a little too well. Lyanna is a fine knight, without any doubt, but I daresay her armour won't fit for long as my child grows in her belly. And I'm sure that as we speak there could be at least twenty knights out there, dying on a battlefield, because I chose to take her and turn her into a knight. They might be Starks, stags, dragons, or from a number of different houses, because I've plunged the country into war. Maybe those twenty other knights might have made the difference when the white walkers come. And the others—the people in the towns caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, the farmer who is forced to pick up a pike rather than a rake because his lord has to provide his army for a war that doesn't concern either of them..."

One of the harp strings broke. It held Rhaegar's attention and it seemed as if he'd forgotten Arthur was there at all.

"I have my Prince that was Promised, but if what I dream is true then I'll lose Lyanna soon after. Chasing dreams is a dangerous business, and too high a price even for the heir to the throne. Maybe I choose not to believe. Perhaps I _will_ take the other path."


	44. Chapter 44

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Forty Four – Summerhall (Part 2)

The light was fading by the time Robert mounted up for the third time. Torn between the rush of battle and his body's screaming need for rest, he found himself less haunted by the faces of those who had fallen under his hammer earlier in the day, hoping that his newfound experience would help end the next battle swiftly and allow him to get the sleep that he so sorely needed.

Had Lord Fell scouted ahead? What would he make of the flaming arrow that flew into the air from the tree cover, announcing his impending arrival? Lords Cafferen and Grandison had been caught completely unawares and that had been Robert's advantage...

The beat of a drum started unseen, giving the army waiting in formation around the ruin of Summerhall their answer as to the element of surprise.

Lord Grandison brought his horse closer and leaned over. "We were expecting him to bring the greater number of infantry, but your horse will outnumber his three to one."

Lord Cafferen, hearing that his counterpart had Robert's ear made sure his opinion was heard too. "He will see that, but he will also see that the men here have already fought more than one battle today. The wisest course would be to negotiate and avoid more bloodshed. We will need his men for the battles ahead."

"Fell is a proud man, and very much for the Targaryens. I don't think he will lay down his weapons and join your cause, my lord."

More voices joined in, giving advice and spouting rhetoric, and in the end Robb lifted his hand for silence, noticing the blood stains and grime covering his gauntlet.

The first sight of his new opponent emerged from the trees, infantrymen arranging themselves in lines ahead of their mounted lords. Grandison was right—while the ever increasing number of infantry gave concern, there were few knights on horseback.

He pointed at Lords Fell and Grandison. "With me. We'll ride out and talk, and see what Lord Fell has to say." Remembering that earlier this morning his new found allies were very much for the Targaryens too, he pointed at another man, his armour even more bloodied and dirtied than Robert's own, the bastard son of a minor lord who had been newly knighted earlier today through his bravery. Fell and Grandison were old men, wise, ambitious, and it seemed, very much enjoyed hearing their own voices. If there was a plot in place, then the elder two men would be no competition for Robert and Ser Warren Storm, as imposing warriors with the power of youth to their advantage, and as smart as they were they would recognise that fact.

With Robert's colours, the black stag on gold, in Ser Warren's hand, the four rode across the churned up mud and grass expanse between the two forces, and three armoured riders, one carrying the Fell banner of a crescent on sable over green, also started forward. As they made their way through a gap in the Fell infantry, Robert noticed one of his heroes—recognisable by the shining axe fastened to his saddle. "Silveraxe" Fell, Lord Fell's son and heir, was a renowned tourney champion. A number of years older than Robert himself, as a small boy he'd followed Silveraxe's wins and losses in the melee, impressed by his choice of weapon, a silver battleaxe.

Once Robert was old enough to show his own prowess and fight in tourneys himself, he'd not had the opportunity to face his idol. Silveraxe looked every part as glorious as Robert remembered, his face mysterious and hidden behind his visor.

And finally the two groups met in the middle. It was Lord Fell that spoke first.

"Lord Robert Baratheon of Storms End, you are charged with treason, of rising up against your king—"

"Treason? Is that what they call it when the Targaryens think they can take what they want—steal noble women from their families to slake their own lust? Murder good lords for daring to speak out?"

"I am hereby charged to execute this warrant to bring Lord Robert Baratheon, alive to face the King's Justice, or his head to King's Landing, in the name of King Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name."

Robert spat on the ground. "I will bring _my_ justice to the Mad King and his son."

Lord Cafferen's horse stepped forward. "My lord, I know your warrant. I set off this morning on the same errand for the king, but Lord Robert's cause is just. And the Warrior has seen fit to show favour on his side. Please listen to reason. Join your forces with our own."

Lord Fell's old, stern face was unmoved. "And no doubt you think it will further your ambitions to switch sides as you might change your jerkin, Cafferen. Instead of the Baratheon land you were willing to fight for in the king's name, you now fancy yourself a portion of mine. There can be no victory against the Targaryens, you old treacherous fool. Do you think you have a chance against the royal armies, you and this little rebellion you've joined? Right, honour, and the gods are on the king's side."

Robert felt his blood beginning to boil. "The Targaryens have no honour, and I won't rest until I see Rhaegar Targaryen dead for what he has done to my bride. I have fought here, on this field, twice today and won twice. It seems to me that the gods think my cause is right." Robert pointed over to the charred ruin over his shoulder. "The Targaryens are as mortal and subject to the whims of the gods as the rest of us. Kings and their heirs died over there. It's fitting that my rebellion begins here."

Lord Fell glared. "And what do you intend to do with this rebellion, young lord? Do you think you can fight your way to King's Landing with this rabble? Storm the Red Keep and kill the prince in single combat, take the throne, and then what? Sit Rhaegar Targaryen's son on it? His younger brother? You'd allow the country to be ruled by a babe?"

"Anyone is better than a madman or a rapist. I don't care who sits on the throne, so long as it's not a Targaryen. I'd sooner see Ser Warren here rule over us all."

"So you intend to overthrow the king, with no plan as to who will sit in his place. All over a woman. You'd pit yourself and your men against the entire country—the Lannisters, the Riverlands, the Tyrells, and everyone else—just to make yourself feel better about the fact that the good lady preferred a prince."

Robert resisted the overwhelming urge to reach for his hammer and quieten Lord Fell for good. Instead he spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't intend on doing it on my own. I have your countrymen here, now my men, who have remembered that I am your liege lord. And the armies of the North—for the Starks want to see justice as much as I do—and Lord Arryn."

"Still too few. You, my little upstart, have more fire in your belly than you have sense in your head. Today will be a footnote in history, of the fall of the great house of Baratheon, and the traitorous Lords Cafferen and Grandison, and the rise of my own family."

After a pause, Lord Fell and his companions turned and rode away at a gallop, and with a roar of frustration, Lord Robert did the same. Once back with his cavalry, Lords Cafferen and Grandison had his ear again.

"He well send his infantry forward first."

"We should soften them with our archers as soon as they come into range."

"They have little in the way of mounted knights. Infantry would never stand up to a charge of horse."

Robert listened as best as he could through the red mist that whistled and screamed in his ears. All he could muster were a few nods of agreement to the plan, and "Smash them," as he climbed on his own horse. Pulling down his visor, he saw the arrows fly into the men on foot, trudging through the earth already trodden and bled upon by the battles he'd won earlier in the day.

When he cried out "Storm's End" and spurred his horse forward, his blood swam with fire, the reassuring weight of his hammer in his hand as he cut a path through Fell infantrymen, leaving a trail of cracked skulls behind him. Barely allowing himself to be delayed, especially not by the clank of arrows on his plate, he found himself break through the last line of men on foot, and galloping across the field to where the few knights gathered around Lord Fell himself.

Carried on by the echoes of Lord Fell's words, he charged, aware of Ser Warren and a number of others making the journey with him as Fell knights rode out to meet them. When they clashed, Robert swung, only being halted temporarily as he single-mindedly made his way towards the man whose offences burned a hole in his mind.

Feeling his horse buckle beneath him as one of Lord Fell's guards met him, Robert managed to slide off ungainly before his mount hit the ground, and before the guard could deliver a follow up blow, Lord Cafferen rode past and engaged him.

Seeing Lord Fell draw his own sword, Robert gripped his hammer tighter, as the mounted old man's weapon tangled with his own. Lord Fell's horse turned and Robert swung again, this time the full force of the blow catching an armoured leg, and with a cry, Lord Fell lost his seat.

Hearing a yell more animal than human, Robb turned to see Silveraxe heading his way on horseback, but Ser Warren was there, engaging the celebrated warrior before he could get too close.

Robert turned to find an awkward and limping Lord Fell raising his sword, but he was little match as Robert swung his hammer again and caught him square on his side, and Lord Fell collapsed in a heap. Robert drew nearer, as Lord Fell rolled onto his back and lifted his visor. Expecting another exchange of words, Robb felt deflated as the only retort the previously proud lord managed was a splutter of blood and then a sudden staring stillness.

Hearing the clank of approaching armour, Robert turned, and managed to stumble out of the way as an axe cut the air only inches away from his chest. Silveraxe swung again and Robert lifted his hammer to meet the weapon that gave his hero his name.

Robert's hammer clashed against the silver battleaxe again, the force of the blunt weapon deflecting the sharp cutting edge of the other. For a moment, the rest of the men on the field didn't exist. It was just a young boy, only taller and stronger, facing his idol made flesh and blood. It was a battle Robb had dreamed about often, only taking place on a tourney field, not as opposing warriors in a real battle, exhausted and fighting to the death, the prize for winning being victory and to live to see another day.

Silveraxe was every bit as skilled as Robb had known down the years, but gods, Robert realised just how strong he was himself, and the flush coursing through his weary body fired him on, blow after blow, until finally, Roberts hammer caught the axe and wrenched it from its owner's grip. Silveraxe danced away from a blow, the hammer only just catching his shoulder and knocking him to the floor.

The defeated knight's helm rolled away, as he landed with a sharp intake of breath and a grimace of pain.

Robb raised his hammer for a killer blow and looked down on his face. "Yield?" And when there was no reply he repeated his question.

Silveraxe nodded, and after a while awkwardly looked over to where his father had fallen.

"Go to him," Robb croaked, relieved that he wouldn't have to kill the knight he thought so highly of, and remembering only too well what it was like to lose a father.

Finding a Grandison knight and instructing him to give the new Lord Fell a few moments with his dead sire before taking him prisoner, Robb turned back to the field of battle. A battered Lord Cafferen rode up, and after a few brief words that Robb was too dazed to register, began the cry that the field was won. Black and gold stag banners appeared amongst the bodies and mud revealed by torch and moonlight, as darkness had now truly fallen.

Robb briefly paused by the remains of Ser Warren Storm, killed by an ugly axe wound that had opened him from left ear to right collarbone. Again, the aroma of shit that hung over the dead assaulted his nostrils.

It didn't matter how bravely you fought, or whether you were on the winning side or not, fortunes could be won or lost in a day, and as Lord Cafferen had said, everyone went out the same way in the end.

But you could be remembered for what you did in life, and Robert knew what he wanted to be remembered for—for being the one that separated Rhaegar Targaryen's head from his shoulders and rescuing the woman he loved, for he'd take Lyanna Stark in whatever condition the dishonourable prince had left her. And if there was the chance, he'd take down the king and see every other Targaryen living and breathing on this earth into a grave, too.

And it was that warming thought that saw him across the field and into his tent, collapsing into a sleep of total exhaustion.


	45. Chapter 45

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Forty Five – Sealing the Bargain

Lord Hoster Tully took a draught of his wine and stared at Lord Arryn sitting across the table from him, mulling over what had been said.

"So you want me to commit treason, to join your cause and fight against my king. And for what? What will that bring me, other than the same fate as Lord Stark?"

"The king is making some unwise decisions. He roasted Lord Rickard alive in his armour, tortured his son, and put the heads of most of the northern lords on spikes. If the Warden of the North can be murdered for treason, why not the other great lords of the realm? You know as well as I do that Rickard was as reasonable a man as you could wish to know."

"But his son was not. Brandon Stark was rash and hot-headed...and chose to ride on King's Landing on a foolish errand rather than finish the journey here to wed my daughter. What are the Starks and their treasons to me, other than a lucky escape from an unwise alliance? And what do you expect to achieve? The king wants your head, and the heads of your two wards. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't take you captive now and earn his favour."

Lord Arryn shifted slightly in his chair. "Yes, my head is called for, and yes, I am acting you to commit treason...against a king who has lost his mind and has plunged the seven kingdoms into civil war. He chose to offend Tywin Lannister, a Hand who did nothing wrong other than do his job a little too well, and in his place he's set up a flattering half wit. Now the north has risen against him, and the Stormlands. He has an impressive force at his disposal but not the sense to wield it.

"The new Lord Stark marches down the Kings Road, and Lord Baratheon has called his banners and is engaging the loyalist lords of the Stormlands as we speak. War is upon us and it will no doubt touch us all. It is time to choose sides, and choose carefully."

Hoster smiled. "That's a fine speech, Lord Arryn, and I do intend to choose very carefully. But you haven't said much to convince me why I should join your side. Why should I pitch my lot with two young, inexperienced lords and an old man? You don't have numbers enough to win a civil war—you could find that in the Riverlands, I know. Maybe you plan to woo Casterly Rock, too. Yes the king and his new Hand might not have the mind for strategies, but many of his loyal lords do. What are your intentions?"

"You're right. We do need numbers. And my plan is to see King Aerys' throne taken from him and force a peace with Rhaegar Targaryen when he ascends in his place. And if he will not, then Lord Baratheon's grandmother was the daughter of Aegon Targaryen, the fifth of his name. He has a claim..." Jon Arryn leaned forward. "And you ask why you should fight on our side. Once you intended your daughter to be the wife of the Warden of the North—"

"Yes, and I know how that ended. I have no interest in betrothing Catelyn to another Stark with his mind set on marching to King's Landing! I won't be part of another Blackfyre rebellion and risk being on the losing side for such a small price," Hoster blustered in annoyance.

"Eddard is not like his older brother. There is much more of Rickard in his temper. He will make a good husband."

"Provided he survives the war. His head already has a price on it, and I won't see my daughter jilted by a Stark again," Lord Tully retorted, taking another sip from his cup. But in his mind, he was already seeing the benefits of having Lord Stark as a son-in-law. In the North, Lysa's madness would be hidden from view, and if he was a patient man, able to handle her unsettled temperament, it could be a good match. "I have another proposal for you. You have two wards, one of whom you intend on placing on the iron throne, so it seems, and Catelyn would make a fine queen..."

Jon shook his head instantly. "No, I cannot promise you that. Robert...Lord Baratheon will never agree to marry anyone other than Lyanna Stark."

"You ask me to commit treason. I have two daughters to be wed, and that is the price of an alliance with the Riverlands."

Lord Arryn looked conflicted. "I cannot give you what you ask for. Robert is betrothed and he won't be persuaded to break the agreement unless he sees Lyanna Stark's bones with his own eyes. I know my own ward, and Robert is set on his betrothed. Ned will do his duty in place of his brother, and maybe I could find another lord who would be a suitable husband for your other daughter..."

"Catelyn and Lysa are my daughters, and I am lord of the Riverlands. Their hands command more than some minor lord. I will give my eldest daughter to the Warden of the North, no less, and I will only see my youngest wed to another great lord."

"I told you, Robert will not marry anyone else but Lady Stark."

Lord Hoster gave a serious look. "I wasn't talking about Robert Baratheon. I figure the climate at the Eeyrie will suit her well..."

Jon took a few moments to comprehend what he was hearing. "But she must be very young...and I am too many years her senior. No, you cannot wish..."

Hoster heard what Lord Arryn was saying, and the same thoughts had past his own mind. But Jon was a good and honourable man, and Lysa was very much soiled goods.

"What I am about to tell you does not leave this room. My eldest daughter will be a good match for the young Lord Stark. She is young, beautiful, and sensible. My youngest...she is not far behind her sister in being easy on the eyes, but there was an incident not long ago that has made her a little more...difficult to manage."

Jon Arryn held eye contact and Hoster knew that he would have to elaborate.

"I took in some little upstart—the son of a minor lord from the Fingers. I always thought he was struck by my oldest daughter but I knew she didn't think of him in that way. When I betrothed her to Brandon Stark the little shit thought he'd challenge him to a dual, and Stark put him back in his place. That was the end of it I thought.

"But Lysa...the cretin put his child in her belly." Hoster paused to judge Lord Arryn's reaction. "I gave her moon tea, of course, and the babe was stillborn. And I sent _him _back to his father before I could put my hands around his throat. But my daughter...her mind struggled. It struggles still."

Jon put his fingers to his temples and looked as if he was struggling. "All the more reason not to give her a marriage she cannot be happy in."

"Older men have married younger. Should you survive this rebellion you can give her a comfortable life, and you can keep her away from where her ravings might cause offence and lose her her head...or mine. The daughters of men such as ourselves accept that they are more likely to marry for politics rather than romance. You will treat her well...and she has proven her fertility. Your two previous wives have given you no heirs. King Aerys put your nephew's head on a spike and successors to your title are now thin on the ground—a precarious position when at war. Your seat could be a pretty prize for the king to dangle, with no one able to raise a valid claim in the event of your death..."

Lord Arryn thought quietly and Hoster was keen to force an agreement.

"You want me to join your cause. I have a daughter that will be difficult to marry off otherwise. Wed your Stark boy to my Cat and take Lysa's hand yourself, and we have a deal."

The pause continued.

"The still babe she delivered was a boy..."

Tentatively a hand stretched across the table.


	46. Chapter 46

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Forty Six – Choosing Sides

Tower of Joy

Oswell, his white cloak thick with red dust, finally rode through the stone archway leading into the courtyard. His approach had been seen from miles away and his prince, his prince's lady, and his fellow member of the king's guard were waiting to greet him. He couldn't help but take note of the expectancy in their eyes.

Weary and stiff, he dismounted uncharacteristically slow and wondered if his face was already communicating the message he had to convey. He walked straight towards Rhaegar, but his eyes instinctively found Lyanna and puzzled over her state of attire—a gown, but loose fitting and uncorseted. Plus there was a softness about her figure that conflicted with the drawn state of her face—the mental image of her and the time he'd spent training with her previous, admiring her lean and toned form, had often haunted him, and he doubted his memory could be so inaccurate.

"Ser Oswell, what news?" The prince wasted no time on pleasantries and for this Oswell was exceeding grateful, wanting to pass his message quickly and then recover from his long and urgent journey.

After a brief moment to catch his breath, he replied, "The king says no. He will not give his permission for you to take a second wife."

There was a moment of silence. Arthur's eyes met Oswell's and they spoke volumes. There was something different about the atmosphere since he had left on his errand.

Rhaegar withdrew and stared at the ground, before taking Lyanna's hand, but by then she was shaking her head in denial, the bubbling of her anger close to the surface more than visible.

"So this is the answer? He says no." Lyanna's voice had a tremor but there was force behind it.

The prince tried to calm her. "Lyanna..."

"He murders my brother and my father, and yet I live under the same roof as his son and heir. I wait for news of Ned from the servants and do nothing to help."

"In your condition..."

Oswell connected the words with Lyanna's attire and filled himself in on a number of happenings since his departure. Half broken over the finality of any futile hopes he might have held.

"In my condition." Lyanna struggled with something internally. "We are at war, a war which might not have happened if I hadn't left the Riverlands with you, and what have I gained in return for what this has cost my family? A bastard in my belly and a pretty suit of armour that might never fit me again. "

She stormed away toward the tower, but Rhaegar was there first.

"This war is not your fault. The blame lies with me. I should have known your family would have felt slighted, and knowing what I do about my father's frame of mind, I should have handled the matter more delicately. Maybe if I plead with him myself..."

Rhaegar stepped closer and despite the fight she put up—weaker than Oswell would have anticipated—he managed to get his arms around Lyanna and hold her in an embrace.

"I will put things right, my love. I swear it. Our child will not to see his parents' families at war."

Half through courtesy and half to counter the frission of jealousy that ran up his spine, Oswell looked away. Arthur caught his attention.

"It's been a long road and the news was a heavy burden. I can imagine you could do with wine and food."

Oswell was glad of the offer and the distraction so he followed the white cloak in front of him. After he'd taken a large gulp of deep red Dornish wine and enjoyed a few mouthfuls of the spicy cooked food in front of him, he decided he felt more relaxed and talkative.

"The Old Bull travelled with the road with me a little way. We had much to discuss."

Arthur, having a mind as keen as the edge of his sword, looked as though he was reading between the lines. "What news from King's Landing?"

"The king's grip slips more and more. The new Hand cannot stand up to the old dragon."

Arthur took a sip from his cup and picked at a piece of chicken, attempting to look casual. "And what did you say of events here in Dorne?

"The truth. That I could understand why Rhaegar took his lady. I reassured Ser Gerold that the Crown Prince is as safe as ever under your loyal attention." Oswell gave a pointed glance in Arthur's direction, making obvious the inflection in his words. "The king goes to war with the good lady's family and the new Lord Stark's friends, though he will struggle to hear a sensible word poured into his ears."

"You think we will be needed?"

"Ser Gerold tells me that Prince Rhaegar is sorely needed in King's Landing, though I imagine he will be unlikely to risk taking Lyanna into that pit of snakes."

Arthur looked as though he had something he was in two minds to impart. "I believe that the prince might well be weighted with his culpability in bringing war to his future kingdom, though you are right about his unwillingness to risk Lady Stark."

Oswell decided that Arthur had laid enough of his cards on the table to reveal his own.

"Lewyn feels aggrieved over the situation, but I know that you would never allow any harm to befall your friend. The king can always rely on Ser Barristan to be by his side."

"And what of young Jaime?"

"His training goes well, but the king continues to torture him. Still, I believe he will uphold his family's good name."

Arthur nodded, clearly keeping up with the subtext. "Darry?"

"I did not see or hear much of him, I'm afraid. I have no news either way."

Oswell could see his comrade doing the maths in his head.

"And you, Oswell? How do you feel about the situation?"

Finally forced into a corner, Oswell took a moment to weigh up the conflicting motivations, pulling him to one side or another. The king was clearly mad, you couldn't be as close as a kingsguard and neglect to notice. Rhaegar had done nothing worse than fall in love with a woman other than his wife—hardly an uncommon crime. No one was infallible. And knowing Lyanna Stark, Oswell could clearly see that her fierce femininity was an impossible snare to avoid. He himself had found himself feeling increasingly tortured with dreams that could never be acted upon.

"I believe that the prince should return to King's Landing to put things to rights before the entire country falls apart. King Aerys would happily see it all go up in flames." Oswell paused. "And I would volunteer to remain behind, to see the lady comes to no harm. And the bastard prince."


	47. Chapter 47

**Of White Trees and Blue Roses**

**I own nothing. This all belongs to GRRM, and I'm just playing with the story he gave us. **

~X~

Chapter Forty Seven – The Young and the Old

Riverrun

The Stark host began to file onto the riverbanks surrounding the Tully home and stronghold, and Lord Eddard Stark promptly asked its imposing and stern lord for their hospitality. As soon as the formalities of bread and salt were out of the way, Jon Arryn took the opportunity to speak to his former ward in private. Though riders had been sent, there were finer details to discuss.

"Robert did well at Summerhall. You taught him well. Three battles won in one day and almost all the Stormlands on side."

Lord Arryn took a less optimistic view. "Robert was lucky, and the king badly advised in his approach. He underestimated him, and I doubt they will do so again. If I were plotting the king's next move I would not delay. I would hit Robert with force before we can join our forces with his. Every moment we dally leaves Robert exposed and alone. He needs strength and numbers, yet Hoster Tully will not commit to anything until both his daughters are wedded and bedded, try as I might to convince him that he risks making them widows so soon. I suspect he hopes we can put heirs in both their bellies, should that be the case.""

"Both daughters?" Ned gave a puzzled look. He knew he was to wed his older brother's former betrothed, but it was the first he had heard of a second bride. "But Robert..."

"You know as well as I do that Robert will never marry anyone other than Lyanna, for all the seven kingdoms and everything in them." Jon paused for a moment before he continued. "I am to wed the youngest. The gods know she is too young for me but I will do my duty. And you will wed the elder."

Ned nodded in silent agreement before adding, "It is a fair price to ask. We do ask him to rebel against the crown. He puts his head on the line along with our own." He seemed older than his tender years.

Jon stopped and rested a proud hand on his ward's shoulder, noticing that he now had to reach higher. "War is costly. Taking a young, pretty wife in return for a Tully army is no hardship. Though I suspect Lysa Tully might think it too much."

"And I am not my brother. My bride is like to find me a poor substitute."

Jon shook his head. "No, you are not your brother, Ned, but Brandon Stark no longer casts a shadow for you to stand in. You are your father's son, however, and you are Lord Eddard Stark. I know you better than anyone, and you will be as fine a man as anyone could wish to have as a husband." He could see Ned was unconvinced. "You are here and you will wed Catelyn Tully, as your brother was meant to. You will honour his promises for him and redeem the Starks in Lord Hoster's eyes. We wed as soon as it can be arranged. I will speak with our host immediately."

Jon knew Ned too well to miss the reluctance in the younger lord's assent, and to know that regardless of this, Ned would not hesitate to do as he should and honourably. Of that there was no doubt.

"Now go, enjoy your final hours as an unmarried man. Heaven knows there will not be much time to be festive afterwards. Robert needs us."

~X~

King's Landing

King Aerys, the second of his name, fidgeted as he tried to pay attention to the voices around him—his Small Council and his son's cronies, informing him of developments, telling him what he should do next, arguing, bickering, offering up names for the position of Hand...

He had been convinced to spare his now former Hand, Owen Merryweather, a fiery death and instead the traitorous fool had been granted the much less satisfying punishment of being stripped of his lands and titles, exile in the East, never to set foot in the Seven Kingdoms again. The betrayal stung. Lord Merryweather had always seemed so loyal, so pleasing, but now Aerys could see that he had never been the man for the job—weak and chinless, not a martial man. He had wheedled his way in through flattery.

And now through his incompetence the young lords Stark and Baratheon had returned to their seats as they should never have been allowed to do.

Stark had raised the North, they told him, and the wolves were marching down the King's Road this very moment to meet up with that old bird, Jon Arryn.

_I will crush them_, Aerys thought. _I will bring Stark before me on a leash like his older brother, and then burn him just like his father, right here, in this room_. The king felt the memory of heat on his face and the sweet thickness of the smoke old Lord Stark had produced. He almost smiled. Dry Lord Arryn would burn well too.

But then Aerys thought of the stag boy and remembered his prowess with his war hammer at Harrenhal. He had been the very picture of strength and virility. He didn't doubt a number of others remembered the image too. And now that boy with the warhammer was rebelling. They said he had won three battles on one field on one day, and the mental picture made the king nervous.

Aerys thought of himself. He had grown old—an ancient, wizened dragon breathing fire in his cave, his wings clipped, much less glorious than he had been in his youth.

The three lords Merryweather had tried to buy had switched sides at the drop of a hat. And no wonder, when they had been sent out to bleed for a few extra coppers and windswept rock by a fat old fool of a Hand who couldn't even trouble himself to leave the comfort of King's Landing.

Varys informed him that right this very moment Arryn and Stark were courting Lord Hoster Tully into joining their traitorous cause, no doubt to join up in the Stormlands and cut a swathe through Aerys kingdom all the way to King's Landing until he was brought to his knees and forced to back down. This could not happen. A dragon does not sue for peace. He burns all that stands in his way. The thought of being brought down to earth by a few upstarts was incomprehensible. If it happened once then too many great lords would find themselves emboldened...

What was needed was someone who would inspire his armies, a hero to stand against the young rebel and who would bring him Robert Baratheon's antlered head, and those of his friends.

Rhaegar had charisma, and he was loved by many, Aerys knew. The crown prince had won hearts and minds all over the realm, or at least he had until he had stolen the Stark girl away. But he wasn't here now...and did the king want to give his own successor that much power? His son's popularity suddenly detracted from his suitability for the post.

_But he is a dragon, fruit of my own loins, pure of line_, a voice in the corner of his mind counselled. _All the creatures bow to a dragon— the lion, the wolf, the eagle, and the stag. All. _

Aerys shook his head and said no, noticing the squabbling around him cease momentarily.

It had to be someone young, someone loyal, ambitious and competent, but not too close that the door could be opened up for a grab for power.

The king looked around the table, and steadily discounted everyone near but one. The flame-haired boy, one of his son's close friends—young Connington, who had brought news of the events at Summerhall and was standing nearby, upright and tall, his red and white griffin surcoat still soiled from the road. Aerys stroked his beard in deep thought.

His lands were in the Stormlands, Griffin's Roost, Aerys recalled, but he was so deep into the crown prince's circle that surely his loyalty to the Targaryen family would be beyond question. Maybe his Stormlands roots would be an asset should a void be left by the Baratheons and the young man proved himself worthy? The king examined the rest of what he knew about Lord Connington, trying not to become mesmerized by the orange fire dancing on his scalp. He remembered him on the tourney field—he had been unhorsed by Ser Barristan but that was no shame, as Selmy was one of his finest knights, and had more than earned his place in the king's guard elite.

Wasn't it said that he was headstrong and ambitious? Yes, but a bit of fire in his belly was a good thing if he could take the action required to earn his place.

It had been noticed the king was staring intently in the young man's direction.

"Your Grace..." he said confidently. This pleased Aerys.

"You, Connington, tell me what your next move would be. How would you put an end to this rebellion?"

Jon Connington began quickly, aware of the honour of being singled out and his opinion sought. "I would hit him hard and fast. I would send a raven to the Tyrells post haste and get them to meet him in the field without delay, as soon as humanly possible. Three battles in one day will have taken its toll. Catch him before he has time to pause for breath, before Stark and Arryn are able to join him. If you bring down Lord Baratheon, then maybe Lord Tully will think twice before aligning himself with their cause?"

"Merryweather tried the same approach. The three lords he sent went over to Robert Baratheon when they saw him on the field. How is this approach any different? I cannot have Highgarden against me too."

"House Tyrell will not go over. They do not owe the young whoremonger and his family allegiance like Cafferen, Fell and Grandison. The boy is nothing to them." Connington gave a sly grin. "And certainly not when they know I will be joining them with a Targaryen army to finish the rout at first possible opportunity..."

The king smiled, and felt truly satisfied at what he had heard. This was exactly what he needed to counteract glorious young Lord Baratheon. Someone strong, young, full of vigour, who did not leave it to others to get the task done.

To the shock of all his other councillors, he held out the badge of office. "Then Connington, I name you the Hand of the King. Now go. Put an end to Robert Baratheon and make his rebellion short lived and I will reward you well. Fail me and I will burn you and all you hold dear to the ground."

Lord Connington kneeled. "I will not fail you, Your Grace."


End file.
